The day of clicking sent roots precariously, which just happened to wake bear. Bear ran the riverside and verse, tending toward a blossoming blueberry bush. Bear is sleek as you are surprised. To feed is to fill the hole that winter was. Pardon the river as it straddles the landscape in gust. Bear is indignant, did not vote for Bush. Obama, this is a network containing words felt for rollicking and timeless leasing proposals. Our country, if you are we, resists pragmatism as surety. Bear contingent opts for prose poems, nowadays. Grains of sand stricken from the record have resurfaced as moons around Saturn. These just piles of impressive dust in circles of inflection will likely fall into the well of the gas giant's heart. Whereas bear, straining for population, maintains an amble of intent beyond such tug. It is all Idaho and the miracle of margin. I once wrote a poem, said John Milton. What??? we replied. The roots of Cromwell's clicking remain with us, so poetry seems thin. Alas and the day of bolting bear.
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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