It is raining and somewhere south it is lighting and
thundering. A storm is moving across the
barren cropland of west Tennessee filling muddy gullies and low lying fields. The wheat is already ankle high as are the
buttercups lining our property. It is
quiet now as the storm has blown on east to well up against the dawn. Morning is coming, the earth is watered. Hard to even think of the din of politics and
media that is already ginning up to pit us against one another like hot August
smothering all memories of damp February. Moving further down in cotton I resist the
inevitable and take another sip of coffee.
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