Simple Theories

  Join Blue Jay in saying  Holy Shit!!!  with finely-wrought exclamation points!!! (three at the very least). [One exclamation point don't say  shit , two exclamation points is poetry served to monks]. Blue Jays have to be poets because NASDAQ has never heard one. You remember that time when you remember that time? Blue Jay explodes that.  Now  is what today is about before you forget the words. Words last mere seconds until bungled, changing to assertions of primate primacy, and lo, horizons shrink forthwith. So today becomes alert and even 'now' by virtue of, word up. Blue jay spent some gainsay of the votive vocal pellet of available instance available  only  in the present now, not the one manufactured at convenience. Blue flashes of inconvenience, tippy spacing of something from else, the wild of life listening: kicking currency to the end zone voice of landscape boss and believer. You heard it, you know. Blue register high life  fromage...

  O Sunflower waiting anxiously to learn if it scored that position in HR that it applied for: of course constraints exist in the human wind. Poll numbers, poll numbers, but sunflower roots delve into real earth. Symbiosis with the sun, turning its head to the real light, by no means wigged out. The field becomes a-gasp with fecund rife. Birds pluck seeds while verity flares. A field of universe in the play and ploy of forces and saturations. No sickness exists but the proceeding moment. Someone thinks they harvest but the entire animal is free. Sunflower tall as stature, ripe as genome, the wind itself a farmstead. Largeness in the tiniest seems like concerto dollop in Bach's flair. You are only as rich as your plantation. Every act involved and the temerity ordained in just this touch, of wind, in the foliage, now.

  wl flies with all the grace of eating mice and barfing bones. Owls fly with the Susurration of the elite, with inhuman shadows as context.  Your shadow casts a smell: you don't pass unnoticed. Your average owl goes beyond average, and is upbeat and diurnal.  You  have nightmares of clownish pause. Still, some owls seep into night with death sounds. Or poems, who's to say? The calls vary, sometimes mournful, sometimes screechy, as delicately human as that. Owls notably look in windows and their heads spin wickedly. They see shadows move like shadows. They enjoy shades of air and silence, quicker than any bunny. Stratum interweave and conveyances differ. The owl scouts with nerve endings and quiet abeying. They live in trees full as mansions. Their sighs fund elegiac plenty and spree, with Bo Diddley beat assembling.

  Geese got that celebrity bona fides. Geese got throng and Stance. You know that they got culture crammed. Report to celebrity geese in your face, they got you crammed. The what's up place got geese and they say so. My town invites geese to stopping baring teeth but my town too close to mud. Your town the geese until geese, next gen fuck you. You angry up because the platitude is geese. Geese monumental green splay of poop. One looks easy, all looks easy, like you as stepping back from geese jurisdiction. What law and order near hell can stem the interdiction of just spreading out. Human history in patches of fertile earth. What's up elongated. Geese friends the sky, so that social. Turn of all within.

  Swans are stately, graceful, and sizable avian targets for rocks tossed by children of all ages. They are mystical birds that mate forever and are especially adapted to being chased by dogs. You probably know that implications are everywhere, even when the world is small. We cannot help being a part and apart, while you watch the weighty swan whiteness gliding on the water. Swans rank as the fastest of waterfowl both on water and in the air. Swans make good symbols. Real swan has a place. As a reader predictably reading this you may see symbols in many lights. Sometimes a swan is just a cigar, and the cigar is just that faraway look. A swan as all Swan remains in the sky, on the water, even walking upon the planetary range. You can see this, you  can  see this. The death of stars means nothing in the cool breeze of today's morning. Nothing is a swan.

  Mourning dove, but mourning? Mourning doves learn queasiness early, they are very alert. The notion of danger, of something not quite right, fires the rocket of their flight. The world is just the edge of nothing, the ace and deuce of super place. In that balls to the wall moment when something of what nature sends dove flying, wings whistle a strong rocket tune. The action inside action finds expression. The sound of mourning is a chosen containment, like you could make this stuff up. People listen to the ludicrous spruce of eulogy, nodding their heads in concert. Mourning dove instead chooses the bullet of flight that finds assay in time. Do you like the endless speech of staring at death while making up life? Mourning dove goes to the moment of attention where verbs brilliantly exist. The one noun in life must know something.