There was a time when the logs in the fire were just children. You could depend on information, it was made on a hill and rolled to your door. We all insisted on the practical wave of knowing right, right to the beginning, right to the door. Patents were tendered, but children cannot step away. They have to stutter and fit that. The knowledge of children crystallizes in patient undertakings, like anti-Semitic watches or telephones with cancer. All time resonates in the way language grows from barking sequences overheard late at night. Not wolves or coyotes but the angling mentor who seizes opportunity as a nation. Not making sense is the new tomorrow but then the sea rises over the wall and litters the streets with plain old matter. To test limits is to read injunctions. Thank the doleful engine for such persistence.
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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