The days carry roseate hue, a full program, and a pond feted by willows. In the resultant dream, a carriage clatters to a halt. Beams of central characters stalk the moment once the horses stop. A wrench of fever pitch turns into Fu Manchu. We have been betting on allies.
The damp wind circulates in the same world as you and me. We are readers and writers of timely effect. A downturn in economy prefigures an upturn in galactic envy. Everything gets to go away but we stand here.
Season freshens with idyllic rivers. Willows fray the water with droop. Starlings bother to gather. Blue jays quake a feverish. Once a mourning dove did not flee immediately.
A poem in all this is a poem, in all this. No adjustments needed, just a spray of the latest air, rain from a virid forest, and cheap talk from a mountain. Political groups have no character.
Now the march toward a victim of the last emphasis. We might listen, the river might flood.
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