The lost word, somewhat like "magnon." "Magnate." Yet also reminiscent of lichen, milking. The phones ring, the mail bears with it the smell of cloudy trails. You could go on forever, in this mode, but why. When what you want is closer to meaning.
An evolving understanding of what rain is, can be. Crackle of thunder, half-filled jam jars dropped from a great height. It whispers is what it does. And you have no desire save to listen. The narrative jumped all over like a snake faced with hot oil. Hoof prints, plain yogurt. The sick dog wandered all night where the moon bled through.
"Magic," "matron." "Mission?" The many courses No will take. Allow yourself the bible, won't you? Falling to sleep with the Song of Songs in my head. Spiders scuttle over the clods, the white bubble of their egg sacs pulled behind. Today grief, tomorrow fried bread.