In the leaves of vapid trees, a tower of fine empathy flows coolly, judging people as increments of words. All words score local access, fade into news, fall into topic. The wind arrives, known for Bruce Springsteen's perfect, loud, creamy distribution. We can be effort, and total, and after all, but oh who will supply the solo moment? Everybody danced and called it vernacular. What if someone said: “Ronnie van Zant will not die in a plane crash?” Vapid trees produce vapid leaves.
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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