Why, oh why, cannot my fish fly? A fin is to swim as a wing is to fly, but what *really* is the difference between a fin and a wing? Are not they both used for propulsion? Steadiness? Turning? Perhaps, then, a fish is a bird of the water and a bird is a fish of the sky. “Horsefeathers!,” you exclaim. Well, who are you to gainsay my equalities? In fact, a horse with feathers is a Pegasus for sure and as it flies through the sky with wings it is also a fish of the sky. But, when a bird of the water–or a Pegasus, of course–decides to swim with its fins first, *before* attempting an afternoon fly as a fish of the sky, it must dry its fins into flightful form on a winter hedge before liftoff as it is certainly the case that neither a wing nor fin, if either of them is wet, will, to the sky, their owner, let. So, whether a bird of the water or a fish of the sky, be dry to fly and to swim, get wet. ; )


Is that the smell of danger or the scent of an acorn? Mr. Squirrel will either evade or discover as needed with paws typing on the branches as boustrophedon: to either side the senses carry until the tail may finally fall at ease. Oh, it is certainly not a vapid dance from limb to line as scurrying tickles even the barkiest pine. For Mr. Squirrel’s modus operandi is to prevent the season of snow from leaving him in a state of res angusta domi, the skilled terpsichorean will continue to thrive in the canopy stage with his groovy tree jive. ; )


The bindle stiff, tired of the action of bundle stuff, can not quite reach where his aching self yearns to stand. What places to go when tied to one’s feet? A library, of course! Everywhere in one seat! A tattered book for a tattered soul? Pages turned from white to yellow. But, the words are still seen and their messages are clear: from page to eye to brain to heart: their are no limits between here and there. Then, as the light passes the leaves astep the window, orchestic shadows draw thoughts back to the real. No plane is needed to return to destination, though, as there is no bond to here nor fare for return. A turncoat of turning coats as an identity has already been chosen; there are no others wealthier. And, while a return may be necessary for each wanted tome, the sonsy paperback, the first to light him, has always a home.


Yes, kitten, it may be the case that a desired item for nipping lies in here, out of reach, protected by drawers ajar in only the slightest manner, but it is not your moira to reach the treasure today. You may scratch and sniff your way toward retrieval, but even the persona of a bauson will affford you no luck regarding your claws on–what is safely tucked away. Even though the situations of illumination may beg to differ, this is not a standoff of Manichaeism; your Jedi tricks are not battling my dark side. It is, rather, you see, dearest kitty, simply a case of awareness of the intoxicating effects of that which lies in here and another entity’s preference to turn you not into a Cheshire being. For there should be no wonder of you landing on your feet, An entity who adores you has decided to mete, Bit by bit–enough–as needed, until you are replete, Sprinkled joys, as thanks for you, friendly kitten, in a treat! ; )


Yellow. Fragile. Aromatic. Eye-livening. From the daintiest daisy to the looniest tulip to the forgotten weed of the dandy lion, what law affirms that a flower may not be as sacerdotal as those adorned with collars of black and white? For there are no limits on God or they ways in which he relates to us. In likelihood, a dowie demeanour, needing a spiritual wake, would find itself drawn to the hopeful hues of an ochre orchid more so than the monochrome colours in which the soul is already treading. Oh, yellow flower! No matter your make. No matter your state. You are a patrician of hope for joy, even nobler than a clergy boy–or girl. Speak to us through each petal; we will listen and grow our mettle! ; )

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