Winds blow cold in the dawn of climbing. The hill before the morning steadies in veil while the townsfolk—they invented Plymouth Rock—their sleep is a pasture. The deeds of lurking and obsession still the rivers, rivals campaign. The hill is bare of knowledge, Cold in token. Death becomes the faction of seed while snow remains cold. No farmstead bursts into bloom tho burning homes are known. No one can see the hilltop now, only choices for a simple day. The language of this fits everyone, in testate and loss. The even stones become clear as words upon a bough. The hill is an afterthought of sunrise.
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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