The inclination to define things begins where? As the sun rises, orioles.
Barns need paining, letters need editing. The dog rolls in fox scat, and comes back reeking.
The movement is toward verbs, away from nouns. Four orioles, not three.
One is attentive to lilac. One senses the flexibility a border desires.
Context matters! And is fluid, evolving.
Thought, too, moves. What is external is always neutral.
Absent a shared language, devolvement is inevitable. Despite a forecast for sun, rain.
Rain and wind. A path between primrose bushes, curling gently away down the hill.
The movement is all there is, and what impedes it is our incessant effort to identify with some part of it. Definitions damn!
And one does long to escape. Yet prayer centers, as always.