The Canadians, avec joie (a kind of joy), survey the field of pommes de terres. The vrai pomme, true apple to its specfic tree, sends diminishing chlorofyl to the honest aether of sky on and on.
The native earth (American or otherwise) escorts dilations of political hope and indeed exact words to a place of people and things, even into the evening light. People think things in this light.
As soon as the flood receded, tout le monde described kings and queens and sweet oligarchs to their breathless journals. Words were invented forever.
Les Américains, sufferable for blemish and actionable taint, decide to blunt the scorn-filled trumpet. Allons enfants, the tractor bites the rickshaw.
The brackish waters of clout resume majesty. Donald Trump has an asshole in his head. He is an homme, tant pis, and always will be.
What wind, then, across the waters of trust now? Nous sommes arrivées in the sanction of matter as mendicant purpose. Un livre invents Ben Carson. For today, c'est tout.