In dreams they rodeo. In life they redo every dream until all dreaming ends. When we are young we know no better, so we take the moon as moon. I think that Summer only stops or comes around again because there is too little room left on these ebbing hills for any more spring. Behold this branch of cedar, drenched and bleeding, blanched from deluge gone along to other valleys.
Stray thunder comes.
But it is only echo of a final soldiering some other year. The year the older trees gave up. Intelligence will do you in, as surely as the little lie. For simplicity it offers up capacity. It says see shades, instead of black and white.