I spend a lot of time thinking about the rain. Look how low the river runs. Maybe it’s the farmer in me, but I fear we’ll
never make it another summer. Golden and sun-kissed grasses aren't as romantic as they seem. In December it will rain; Seattle will see to
that. I don’t need an almanac or
meteorological estimations. It will
rain because that’s the way it works. Always here and never there, creating envy amongst the masses.
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