These nations of interest resist human compunction. It is up to us to colour the hedges green. The path is ready for squirrels.
A sabre-toothed feline writes a labour of isolation into the words called history. It matters that beavers get wet. Lightning rises from the earth to kiss particular clouds, in parts of the world, at such and such times. Meadows wake up mown.
Arrivistes satisfy their heads with naturally long sentences. In brief, these sentences survey the landscape and calculate past drama. Those of us who stayed, who were, remind ourselves with flocks. Butterflies match leaves with wind.
A patent contained in a poem restructures the neural patterns of complacency. Geese startle in the sun, robins signal to moonshine, verbs become wetlands.