Egrets present an white ephemeral flash when seen distantly astride their wetland turf. No one who knows them would say egrets talk too much. That storky creature by itself in the muddy realm looks too insular. Maybe they are agnostics or on the spectrum. Everyone has their hobby horse of restriction. We all understand that birds must eat something, even if it is anything. Our Eagle friend looks like no connoisseur. Egrets seem chuff with their feet in the mud, snapping up whatever tidbit in reach. Workers of the world, take a look at yourself. Do you do better than this monstrance in your transaction of the daily deal? Life creates a buttress for non-life. Drouthy summers flatten egret odds. Human error of global proportion, oh well. Morsels lack freshness or existence in the mortal mud dedicated into time loss time. The birds stand by erect and noble in the notwithstanding of marsh.
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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