we think we are making inroads, then the bear walks down the hill. is it spring already? definite clouds give way to ephemera of roads based on memory. Renaissance music fills the rood in which we walk, while a galloping bear prepares the year for spring. it has wrestled with the majority and hunkered down. now is a pleasant concept, devised in a language. we go on in the language. trifles of crocus send dogma packing, patches in the clouds form rescue league. diurnal plectrum, modest increment, political quark, and all these reasons to trust. a dusting of sunlight lays smartly on the early grass. sullen children with their numchucks resist bailout offers while seminal scalawags reap status alerts on Facebook. Jennifer Aniston arises in the bedded morn to speak of dark and wonderful things. her Agamemnon is like no other. justice scouts plenty and decides. voices lift the bandage. the government and all its particles cluster on the finest point. upon this point a team from Facebook work their magic. it is called a narrative, the finest of these angels says. we twitter with a tweet, like three oranges in a row. yes, Excellent English, Yeti, and me. we are in the foothills now, with the smell of spring and people near. odds are excellent, and evens are just. Jennifer Aniston has just enough time, as Brad Pitt fades in luck of the draw, and Agamemnon weds the last step down. a bear taps on the window, you see. it is spring and all and lovely on the marsh. every singing waterfowl got the registry from heaven. a poem comes of age. we march into the village, while the dancing bear counts fours...
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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