I see you, Mr. Day, sitting on a bench on a field. That's what you know of nature, a creek and the birds. More names and specificity might broaden the meadow into a forest, a marsh, and branches from every genus. However, you worship words for living and to prepare for dying and you need the respite, I can see it on your brow. Too many heartbeats per sparrow, too many sighs for each breeze. Your sentences must suspend, to seek other gods, and rest your book-bled knees from their obsequious crawl to knowledge. I, hypocrisy, observe and wield the keys to play the tune you should not yet hear. We are partners, antagonists, and more than prepared to use flowers against aspens. Will they fight our war or give us both a hill to live on? I am watching and collecting all the things you set aside. It's a chickadee day, isn't it? Are you ready to wonder what a deer thinks, before the tail's up and fifty yards? Can you do it images and feelings? Are any of those tools separable from your anchor, our addiction, the tyranny and theocracy of language?