Tall enough to warrant a particular word for the expression of tallness, given birds as a general category, the blue heron plants its feet. This positions the world there, where anything brief may be. In water, by water, or on firm land itself. The world makes a strong plantation. Fish, frogs, insects, that sort of thing as possible food and plenty. Pointy beak in the extremis of living delivers the culminating darting moment. The thought basks electric. Greek philosophers in the ages rode heron into oddity and back. You can see that, right? Heron flight says something about expanse. The legs drag behind, the neck curves, the wings sweep with impossible levitation. Blue heron weigh as much as any myth, sculling to the next wet place, which you may never see. It still happens, with or without you.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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