Roofs and the Distance

I glanced through the blinds. And glanced again. Past the clean pane streaks criss crossed the bright of day. They fell out of the low dark grey–after midday. I could almost smell wet soil; hear the rush of water through valleys in a light brown jaunt. Tarmac turned wet then slicker than sweat falls. The sky growled. The clouds parted. The tarmac was dry. The roofs in the distance touched the blue.

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