Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
I love hailstones. We see them so rarely here, those little balls of solid ice.
Yes, they’re not quite as romantic as snowflakes — more like grim cousins. And not always little. Where I grew up in Central California, a hailstorm could ravage the landscape in just a few minutes. More than once, I watched from the window as the crops in our vineyard and orchards were destroyed.
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