After the night, only the one night, house sparrows are trees. Small trees, bush and shrub entities, roots and branch alive. After that night, the reflected world, the house of sparrow dream. In the flick of seed or what on the expansive ground, levee breaks or night is only then. In the day of autumn, the one day, the only day, and house sparrow tribe is in tree or floor of earth in the sky of god’s image. The splay of slide guitar in the town of music, in the breath of time or space (we don’t count a lot). No death exists in the house of sparrow.
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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