The rain had stopped and we sat to watch and listen as the storm’s slashing furry settled to not much more than a purr. “That’s good, quality thunder,” my wife said, as it rippled around us like a prowling cat.

Good, Quality Thunder

The boy looked twelve--a pimpled, soft white face without a whisker, curly dark hair over his ears, down his neck from under a light-blue bucket hat . . . Another one, Matthew thought, pushed out of the nest and rolling to a stop at his kitchen.

Jarvis Coffin

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