Sifted breeze is the same integer of frogs in spring, night caulked with standards raised to stars, brief endings in the middle of sentences. The sentences include the same frog with integer, numbered as throng while sticking to severe chorus. Listening is equal to containing the half spin of a fertile globe. Poems are impetuous.
We read to Yeti, in a night swirl, glowing in fire that arrived from cave. Cave is the first word, finally.
Yeti clamps the mountain for time, stops when the stars are still in winter, stays close to a subtle television. CBS is the greatest television network.
Frogs slide across the kitchen floor, known as mystery of night.
Chill breezes disturb the fence behind which a pond harbours the mention of frogs.
Yeti is a book known for the mountain on which a tribe is born. Fresh frogs arrive each spring.
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