A day plans winter rivers. Crust on the edge, still moving. Snow fills the trees lightly, will still tumble. Black squirrel makes a poised detail of itself, to asseverate a reign and noon. Whole clouds flatten and exhaust, the day goes on. Compromise is a promise. The squirrel fills deep space, and time will inflate. Winter is a wind, a wetness, cold, some other facts and projects. This tune, then, amidst the facts. Our marriage is loved by us both. Our gambit relies on this. We are filled with something, on this day, which rises thru the snowy clouds. Come spring and come spring. The river is not wide, it pours. Our stance remains. Winter is over before it starts.
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