The other day, I saw a black squirrel. Like a dream, it came and went and I couldn't be sure if it was real. The shadow flit across the grass as if to escape the sun. Rapt with curiosity, my eyes followed the furred black body scamper up an oak and disappear to the other side. I wanted to follow it further along the branches of the oak but there were things I needed to get done. My mind stayed squirrel and the rest of my day passed uneventfully. As I returned to the oak on my way back, my eyes followed the branches from the twigs to the trunk and the trunk to the twigs, slightly hoping I would catch a glimpse of the black squirrel, but knowing that I would not. Perhaps one day we would cross paths again.
The Way You Push is like talking about walking. You do something and something else happens. How's that? Nobody seems to be clear on the mechanicals, but the wizards work. Altogether, it is rather rhetorical with no sense of assembly. Pictures of printed words are more greedily grokked and you'd think, "Why?" Who knows? Of course, the familiarity of it simply suggests that it's oft overlooked. Sometimes, though, it's just there in color and chord, beautiful, resplendent, an ocean-view oriel. The shimmer and sparkle of a sunny surface are distracting as the fluctuations are irregular (sporadic vicissitudes?) In good keeping, we find ourselves where we are supposed to be, right where we left ourselves and right where we're on our way to where we're going.
