I am, ready to believe it, them, in the there, us all being here. Look, we must go from here, miss the cat s pounce, the hawk s stoop, the bee s buzzy fumble in the glove of the fox, sheep s amble at bedtime, the good book. In the burrow, we take no taxi, pay no tax, survive in the close pit by vigilance, stout heart, sharp claws. In these twisted tunnels we know like the back of our fists, the weak have no luck. Outside, it is worse.
Souls die in the city s web for a crust.
Yet there is one who ll then and now die in your place. You d do the same for some number two. If we crouch long enough on watch outside the entrance to this burrow time will pop out and nip us on the snout. A poke s pig grunts in attics. Batty, I thrive on giving advice, good, of course.