As the poet Lawrence Binyon wrote in For The Fallen, "They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them." Outside, fugitive winds from an unusually cool summer downpour, with monsoon-like intensity, are whipping and slashing against my picture window in a drenching that even Noah would have found unnerving.
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