Swallows, in random turns, peck the river
That holds the image of moving clouds
Carefully before the breeze paints an impression
Ripples die only a few breaths later, the cycle
Of the villager crossing the bridge
Creaks across its wooden length like a long complaint
Logs half eaten by rain grow out of rocks
Storing puddles of tadpole eggs, the sky
Turns grey
The breeze winds into a wash
The river’s images wiped out into waves
Shores that housed storks take off suddenly
Clouds darken, the sky cracks into thunder
The temple bell sways and tinkers in the distance
Getting louder, as the storm brews
As the screen turns grey, the sound
Of falling rain plucking us all 


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