Ivory sheep in the morning sun crowded the summit of the cold brown wold A man bent over a spade, digging earth from a dry bank dumbfounded by phenomenology dreaming of sultana pudding
I think I have nothing to say, so I say nothing Lines are the names of cryptic species in imaginary taxonomies ornus, or as the pinax more peculiarly, fraxinus bubula
Camellias flower after frost Souvenir de Bahuaud Litou who was this remembered rose tendre, tardif, imbriquée Thorn wands haunted by rose-breasted batchelor chaffinches But the van still hit the dove, grey feathers in a mirror
The alders are cloaked in thin russet veils, catkin coats against the cold the east wind puts knives between the sun and earth some hold out their hands, palm up, wide ides in meetings