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After the storm
strangely breathless somehow
the coming night
fresh in the wake of the great storm
glass clear
the first stars shine bright
mirrored in the many flooded fields
the last soulful birdsong is stilled
in submission to the voices of the night
as a world sighs deeply in relief
a young owl in flight hoots loud his delight
at the rich harvest of half drowned mice
the only other sounds
in a sky washed clean of insects
is the steady chuckle of dirty ditch water
heading happily for the sea
