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The Breath Sometimes, land holds its breath. In Sicily, it happens during summer in the long noon. The earth is beaten gold is burnt, left shivering in the sun’s aftermath. Inland, sea is too far out to matter. Cicadas’ rattle breaks in waves drowning dust rivers’ hiss. And when the land assumes a listener, admitting the ear into August’s interference, a pause is felt, as though the blue sky held invisible clouds, as though a pressure wrung from them a storm of quiet.
David Mohan
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