Good work we, us. The matutional song lighting the road and my own mind wandering along with the ta-hoo, ta-hoo, ta-hoo of the singers in tallest branches. Letting the pink-tufted trees guide me. Taking the mind out of everything, not letting. The things never to say. It's too late at night to let open a mouth, set forth the ends sharpened. With only the strength of a gentle beast on me to warm me, the memory trying to drain down till gone. But too much doubtfuls.
