Awaken and see the dew on the fields! Gauze veils diamonds with silvery sheen Allowing mystery to fold its shields And confirm nature defies being green.
How dare! thunder roars as the wind whines low. Then sun rises, burning the dew away. Foolish dew sees no difference, you know Mid high grass and low, sparse and lush, they say.
Neither thunder can be stolen, nor sun Stripped of its heat. Wind is allowed to howl. So must gentle dew toss gems without shun Offering ambience designed for all.
Extend to each form of nature its due Or such morning marvels will bid adieu.
About Parallel: Bound by circumstance and tradition, and mocked by the turnpike that bisects their farmland, folks folded into the ridges beneath Timmons Mountain sense the world is literally passing them by and look for ways to catch up: veterans of several wars seek salvation through escape; a female garbage collector reconciles death through correlation; a clinical psychologist relies on a fictional detective to manage his obsessions; a housewife finds the mystical on a mountain top; and a discontented Amish woman faces a fate she believes her duplicity has earned her.
Their tales reveal the resilience of the human spirit even as they evince the paradoxical nature of change.
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