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.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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