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reunion d'amore Like a confidante, the thunder calms with its return. Torsos spooning in the night, arms skating over bellies warm in the urban sprawl north to Buda, far across to Blanco where the thunder rolls. But not so here, in this room of coverlets and excess pillows half-rumpled linens make this cabin chillingly aware of lightening shadow masquerades who only play the walls to tease, they mock. Thunder. After summer nights stretched long with nothing in-between but heat waves rising from the patio. It inundates the lull of owl-light rain, liquid bounding from the grass and limestone crossings. It rises up from hind leg hooves and bellows out as does this longing, this backwash of emotions resounding from my half-made bed of one. Mia Moore
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