A curious collection of tree-like impulses radicalized by plain speech and a few clouds. Chords form in distant gatherings, like seeds. Town folk strike intransigent poses amidst documents of wonder. They stand firmly green, brown, or red, with invisible books and long strands of history. You feel akin tho nobody sees the linkage. The weather just produces damp fantasies of clime. The trees and their squirrels and rabbits, crows and toad stools, create a literate pattern of daybreak. Noon becomes a summit of action, night brings autumnal musing. Lo, stretch long from eminent light. The people, even you, extends the tidal dialogue. Somehow, Hart Crane knew something. Emily’s book holds you. You can call everything America. It is just a tree without you in mind.
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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