Reading your book and stirring the porridge is a plaiting: tactile, rhythmic. The dog barks to have such fun, or wants it. Rain primps on our tin roof, veranda dusted off, biddable as Berryman, narcissistic in its newly found pleasure. I eat the porridge, at the mere mention of which a child sings a song of praise. Nobody answers. Cynicism scoffs at such a half-pint hoofer. Limited by language building in rounds, ego is not a dirty word, fitting biorhythmic conflict within multi-veined bladders. And the verb ran away with the noun. Duncan spoke of the swarm of human speech, as, just now, galahs parlez loudly in the tall gums. Just now and still then. Wit and words and oats,
the spelling and grammar check is complete.
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