So the tree frogs gather up there in the trees, logically and confirmingly. God—you know, as in God—who has been known to flood the earth according to several reliable traditions, sends a good dousing, perhaps as a reminder. Untold tree frogs find themselves washed from the tree and maybe drowned or otherwise screwed. Well, what about that? No telling, the world is too much with us. Tree frogs don't represent a single species. They just happen to choose an arboreal habitat, much like you might choose to live in the boonies. Perched in trees on summer nights, the male chorus sings the frog version of sinuous mating call or whatever subtle rapture, unless swept away by the God of Downpour's parlour trick. It's all life in the frog lane, which indeed is your lane as too. Might as well go out singing, in the springtime minute.
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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