From the East a river falls, through venom dales, with mire and clods, godly slough, as is recognized. The Deities into imagination prance, coltish, even fresh of desperation. The troupe of Deities en masse bring gravity low and firm. True rocks, true planetary quiver on the plain, true spice of wind and formal rain. From East, invigorated just this minute, and to the embracing nest that is west. One named impulse brings the spear of lightning. Another vibrates to the tune of thunder. Note how easy the word seems, echo upon echo. Listen again, the true note begins.
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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