The dog barks green, the earth of spring. In spring of all weather and
whether or not, the light suffers change of tree. Tiny trees begat large
rags and rages in each day. And soon a smile thru sunset gives a glow
but now we are dry. No drier to forget the teeming winter without
effort, and the saddened summer that lack all it could. Now the dog at
peak stays green with a bark worse than a frog's. We hold our heads
together with this line f reasoning. So strong a listening of a patron,
the best could be rabbit. That rabbit, hidden in grass, and grumbling
about the weather that didn't stay, remains a dust spoken in between.
Lifeless pauses constrict a tale, but that rabbit rushes towards
wherever is convenient. And the rains stopped enough to let the rivers
spread. They've spread into Concord and all the other edges. Thoreau
dreams the dog, we dream the green, the evening fills its space with
open window. So much more myth than history lives.
