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A Still August Night
It was a still August night
With not the slightest hint of breeze.
It was the kind of a night
To hear leaves growing on the trees.
The crickets and cicadas
Joined in the nocturnal chorus,
The heat and humidity
Rendering the air non-porous.
The moon was full - a white sphere
Suspended in the grey dawn light.
Birds chattered from the tree tops.
The world awakened. All was right.
