Acorn plunges forth with plenary momentum into. Into land and time and time’s structured limit, the year. The acorn fulfills social construct, living in communal scads, in word-like abundance. The grand scape of oak provides an early nest for the frenetic pace of burgeoning acorn. Listen to the solstice. The ripened missile leaves the tree within the light presumption of time. Your time may not have noticed. Squirrels in ardency then proceed as shepherds of energy, rustling up acorns in gorgeous aptitude. Some acorns feed the squirrels, some nestle in loam, to dream the light within. And you are busy too, as rivers pass, winds blows, the people who appear. Your hand can touch another, the acorn holds still for a moment. Perhaps something can be declared in the remaining sun. It can only last forever.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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