Inching along now, word by word, not a complete thought in sight. Did have one once, a complete clause, gave me pause, didn’t last long, a mere utterance. Must move along, a kind of proposition neither true nor false. Paddled through the kelp around the point. Each wave a fragment of fancy, a figment of you know what. Nothing here, nothing there, may a touch of wit be with you.
Cartooned, too, motionless, almost, like a cartoon, barely enough. Threads. And beads. Even dismissal doubtful. Traveling light, stuff in storage, if you can call a household holding an industrial trial. Like paddling, nautical, head above water. Jarred, not stirrage, as in shaken, not stirred. Vespers as what light there is fades. Etymology: the evening star. Vespertine. And after night, matutinal.
Dawn and songbirds. Bees swarm the morning glory gold trumpets. Swallows and swifts dash the morning cup of black bitter coffee the paper cup. From vespers to bitters. While still cool. Morning lasts until noon. Why morning works best: allows for song to carry along no distortion from wind or the noise of other animals. Work and the sounds of work opening, the pulling on of gloves, the squeak of toolbox hasps, the last of the dew spots on the sidewalk and the rolling out of the blueprints on the makeshift table on the sawhorses.
The Coming of the Toads 