Slivers in a scourging wind found my safe square and swept it to the border. Today, rebuilding the tower of lenses brick by bar, I drank of the winter sun in the same chorus. The white painting on the windows, in answering, file past the gate bar I swung to a bolt, but the legion of fine particles would not release my wrist from the tendrils I had woven second.
Bearing of the compass: going hard in the orchard of long moss, the touch as of unthinking fur in the obscurity of groping night. Running my cool wrist along, I find the lashing slivers again.