Rapt a lithe day yawns open. To the mongering poverty of chance and bounty of canyons. To the persistent glazier sun. To the forlorn so long and perilous darling ephemerae like you or I. Grown from corollaries in a dark pit and knowing the murderous ways of certain breeds of choice. Ground tides underfoot. Woodpeckers knock quick at the light. Their claws grip the splintering wood.
Strain gathers. It’s movement comes as on a slight wind soon grown heavy. So go on and come off it sorrow. The weather changes. Fistules and counting.
It is not always only the sky that writhes.
The earth too may move
but it only very rarely opens up.