The sudden crack and rumble from the summer storm, bitch slaps the cabin in the stillness of a hot summer night. The disorienting violence yanking me from another plane. Reoriented only by the afterburn of rain slamming the metal rooftop like pee hitting a flat rock behind a roadside bar. Once relieved, that bitch moves on down the river. I can hear her as she curses out the neighboring land, pushing her way down through the forest burg. I lay there, happy that she’s found other places to unleash her anger. Settling back into a long wait until dawn now. The wet moss and pine trees pushing their scent through the open screen window: they too are delighted she has moved along. Inhale the coolness deeply through my alert nose: I love the cold tickle in my sinuses after the forest rain. It’s happy hour. Drink it in until goofy. In the morning, those who were awakened by the bitch’s sudden appearance in the still heat of the summer night talk about her violence. And wonder at the ability of those who weren’t awakened to sleep through her fury.
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