Summer is a symphony of midnight storms played by an improvised orchestra.
Raindrops on a tin roof set
a syncopated
rhythm. Percussion.
Slowly, softly the strings come in.
Then the winds through the trees.
A sweet oboe solo drifts above the rolling thunder of a
brass baseline in the distance.
It must be a marching band that plays; they
grow softer as they
float away with the parade.
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I've been thinking about summer lately. Looking forward to sleeping with the windows open and listening to the sound to summer storms.
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