That trifle called rain drew interest. It greyed the sky opulently with a cold drama that we read. The rain fashioned itself as water and let gravity pull. The rain found the earth and that which covers it. The rain reached to places because rain is water, like us. We entered the earth with the rain and found the rain. We drew breaths of water and saw a grey sky. Something splendid could occur even in the sheen of water on a leaf. The sheen on that leaf states a case. It declares that anything could be something when we look. And when we do not look, anything is nothing. The rhythmic splash of rain on various earth articles produces thoughts in us. Today, the rain makes Sunday. The candidates have shaken hands before. Our next president throws up his hands, which sounds messy. Again, today the rain makes Sunday.
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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