Deep is the dampness settling upon my brown skin.

A layered onion would not succumb to its 

seduction.

An Oregon rain is persistent, precipitated by

a scowl of dirty clouds, a Creole-colored frown,

its sound preceding as if pitter-pattering feet running

free like caribou on an open plain.

Nothing tastes better than Jovino's Pinot Gris,

recommended by Emily, a wine...

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