Dear Farm Journal,
The percussion of precipitation on the hood of my raincoat dulls other distant sounds; the beating wings of a fleeing pheasant, the nervous trill of the red-winged black bird. The gusts of wind further flood my ear canals and encircle my thoughts. The raindrops patter and pool along bare soil. They slide down stems and disperse elsewhere over cover. Each droplet sedulously makes its way through the water system. Some find a path of destruction…others sustenance.

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