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I’ve been truant in writing, having been enveloped in a maelstrom of activity.

Today, for the first time in a long time, I sit at the window and listen to the polyrhythms of the rain, which imitate bass, toms, and snare. The cymbal hiss of a passing car.

This random percussion barely conceals a widening silence. 

The stillness inside a storm. 

I listen with concentration and patience. And I look through the window panes spangled with silver droplets.

First at the rain itself and then, after a great while, at the brightening skies beyond.

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