This morning, on the path to the front door of my school, I stopped to look at the quiet world. The sun was not yet up and magnificent night still presided. Lamps dotted the scene like fireflies. The sweet air rose and died away again. In the blue-black sky the crescent moon and a single star still shone, framed beneath by the feathered tree line.

This evening, as I made dinner, thunder rose to a crescendo like drums. I looked out the window. Lightning flickered. On the news, I learned that Frank Buckles, the last WWI veteran, died at his home yesterday. He was 110 years old.

After the storm passed, the windowpane glowed with sky colors. I strolled up the sidewalk through my neighborhood, toward the sky resplendent in orange and gold. Beads of rain hung like tears from black, bare tree limbs. Invisible birds in the canopy above called furiously to the night.

Oh, the beauty and sorrow of this world.

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