Summer sun

Standard

The smell of clay-baking soil rises from the ground.

The waves are sluggish, muted,

Even the wind has settled down.

Wrapped in a golden haze the midday world

Ambles along the dusty road.

The sweat is heavy in his brow,

A chain of storm clouds from the east.

Afternoon rolls, the thunder sounds,

Delirious relief for all the thirsty things.

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