Ready to enter wonder-land of winter, an ephemeral glower exists only until eyes espy the matriarchal tree of illumination. Slight compunction arises for not inviting company to share in what the ice has to entice, so self turn-steps forward as a histrion into the first act’s scene, where a rooted audience cheers the presence of the story’s snowy queen. Sunshiners will not be caught in this gelid air, but so much bright might just convince them to reappear. A walk, some talk, a ride, turned tide: play will end in bow. But, an encore is always welcome and entrance stands ready to send off to next warmthful wow. ; )
Floral language may be an element of some paragraphs, but the key to an engaging story is to balance ethereal passages with amylaceous ones. Of course, structure matters as well, with linear lines having their place while eolian thoughts may bring breezes of teases. Dynamic dialogue could find itself in the hands of a histrion and a successful story could find itself bound towards becoming an ex-voto. Unlocking one’s voice requires words for both planting and playing—until that which feels bright is, indeed, a daisy. ; )
Mirthful candies anticipate tongue squishes on their smiles and playful bites on their ghost ears. Saccharine sweets are out of this world, but they require no astrolabe to measure a quantity for a mouthful. Only the slightest shake is required to create enough stiction to transfer yum-gums to a place of lickily lovely suck-tion. While witwantons may believe a glaze of lace of happier would turn fruity chews more dappier, indeed, a truly spirituel partaker of bright bites takes a pair for self, shares a pair with bestie, and divvies the rest to any needing-a-bit-of-cheer by-passer or welcome guest standing by-near. : )
Chipmunks carrying cups of cocoa for a course of chattation find themselves in disagreement regarding whether or not the paths of gas giants require scurrying or surveying—as the plaintive one mourns the acorns lost to the morning commute and the palmy one lauds the photos snapped from new telescope’s shoot. ; )
Ah, yes. I see. But, no, no, no—some ducks *do* belong in a tree instead of asea—I mean apond—or alake.
From here, I can use dataveillance to create counter-strategies against those who would try to ambush my water-based kin.
If even just a thraneen of suspicious rustling is noticed below, quacks will warn others to safety, even if out of their row.
My feathers exemplify each swatch in the gamut of hues known to exist for my kind, allowing me to blend in with all sorts of leaves in any tree I might find.
Also, I find that branches excel at providing places for more introverted ducks to secure peace at will and since not all shoots involve cameras, escapism experienced out of reach will always fit the bill. ; )