The morning breeze is cool and laden with moisture . There is no time to savor the fragrance of impending rain . The parched earth is drinking its fill , somewhere close by . A streak of lightning splits the sky as thunder rolls “its barrels thumping down the stairs “, as Mark Twain puts it. That propitious moment when you bang your car door shut , and the skies open up ,simultaneously. Raindrops bombard the panes, seeking admittance . It is still dark .
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