While it is still dark, the birds begin. Treble where the leaves are. And it accelerates. We are mostly soul. Of the black sky turning blue between pinprick stars. Cannot live in permanent wonder nor vacillate. Forgetting is part of any spiritual moment.
A sentence is a caul. A paragraph by design. Twenty sentences are what vessel. The heart between its ribs the way a cat does. More and more the afterlife. Consideration to which it obligates. Last summer, I was a bird.
In Nova Scotia, from Nova Scotia. Where it was quiet, those were happy.
Over coffee, a discussion of the merits of certain umbrellas. A fear of what interstice motivates prayer. 'Tis the sinew where the Lord shows. And a light which breaks like song on a river.
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