The willow escapes from the ordinary with wet feet. Churlishness aside it favors us with salicylic acid, the bane of your terrible, unconscionable headache. The willow goes beyond mere solicitude by drooping close to river surface and sighing. Willows bear their young in the slinky strands of their branches. Their lullabies prove comforting like a piano floating in the breeze. The willow can pronounce many large words but life is not a game. Life is a motivation to live while willow stands at river edge and watches canoe disappear. Politically, willows bend because the winds of change and so on. Like most people, there's no stopping a willow from drooping. In the murky sentence of summer the willow goes nowhere, being rooted in moment. Willows vote pro-union because reasons always matter. Matter itself does not. This cuts close to the willow of willow, a timeless retort to timelessness where vacations seem possible and busy carpenters cast their hammers skyward.
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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