A scarab beetle steeps in spruce shade.
“Vast and inhospitable” is how his vision was described.
The urn was unearthed in pristine condition.
“Beware the maelstrom,” she said with a smile.
I realized the gorge was behind the house.
The seminar was long and exclusively cerebral.
The party: brief and mood-altering.
Do you remember the nightjar that woke us on the heath?
Echoes scour nooks. Anchors sleep in sand.
We trust in the wisdom of brisk calligraphy.
Children hide amidst the wagtail battalions.
Her backpack was stowed in a booth in Minsk.
They shunned the adage for its oblique suggestions.
Krantz was a philatelist of questionable intent.
The ode bivouacked near the orchards of chance.
Have you read the memoirs of Hieronymus Krantz?
Rain flushed gutters. Zinnia eclipsed the sun.
A heron perched on a bleached and battered piling.
We may never fathom the lake’s secret system.
“Glide through the alcove,” they said,
“skimming your image with your thumb.”
