Skip to main content

Cardinal

 Cardinals are birds, attested by exertions in the middle of a sentence. Their red (male) feathers give rise to their special name because they clutch the spectrum at the same place as those Pope-appointed church fathers who wear raiments of red. The birds were first, red like the beaten afternoon sun. Female cardinals own a rusty orange colour, perhaps to hide better in their nesting covert. The colours of cardinal requires the time each colour takes. We have a love story, then, amidst the trees and breathing world. From the bifurcating colours of the sexes you can impute as you will. Cardinals sing together well, exhibiting excellent triangulation. Judging by the range of calls, they maintain a lively colloquy. Their crest could win praise just for its distinction. Like unto blue jays, titmice, and not much else on this continent, cardinals have top notches. Only the tanager matches cardinals in downright redness, but cardinals have crests, the winning thing. Their beaks crush seeds in the trundle of time. Outside time occurs words, peeps, and other fitting machinery. Any singing matches nothing but a point too quick to map. The flash of red or rusty brown says something piecemeal in the attainable world. You are a clock, Reader, you are a clock.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.

Adam Sandler Has Totally Lost It. Okay?

The greatest popular person in the world died today. Repeat: this person was young, with exceptionally pleasant features forced of radial tires. Each star in the empyrean sighed for lack of this locus of popularity. Humdrum took on new meaning, but meaning did not. Meaning is a wave of popularity toward the sigh of exceptional stars. These stars are good-looking reminders of all that is possible, tho distant from any address. Tears flowed to the heart of the Milky Way, because the popular person stood tall and well-dressed, like sentimental eagles drinking Bud Light while evoking timeless mythic pediments. The greatest of popular signs grew milky with waves of stars over easy oceans of just plain folk stalking the best. We remain ardent, tho the popular person can no longer contribute. We have to look in magazines again, for the source and severing. Levers used for leverage feel average. Again the popular trout, the popular doorknob, the popular brand of sweetened, flavoured, f...

Today's Widespread Panic Concert, Sans Banjo

The banjo is dead. Those included in banjo are dead. Inclusion is dead. Death is dead banjo dead. Its banjo is dead. The name of its death is dead. Name is dead. Its political act is dead. It sound like banjo but dead. It no time to be banjo. You must remain a rope with language and dulcimer. Only dulcimer live. All banjo dead. You are banjo, Donald Trump. Hurry up Donald dead,  untimely to dead still dead like words. You and banjo both. You is dead and you too.