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The sky has gone all wheezy. Yellow. Sickly. Faint rumblings spill from clouds not quite overhead. It is still. Still. The air thick. Choked.
As though something is about to die.
There are no birds. Not a one. No squirrels, chipmunks, snakes. No butterflies, no bees, no dragonflies. Just this taut inside of a fat balloon.
They say people go mad in moments such as these. Waiting for it.
And then it never materializes, passes by. And the sky shifts and fills with wings.