[….]

The list of the pitches evinces a wish for the roll of persuasive proposals.
The forest catches the faintest snatch of needles, obliquely, falling in a sound. They spiral as

            they swoon and then, before resting, hapax, rebound.
Shed needles nestle in a spread of sheltered beds, haphazardly carpeting each conical grade

            with a seasonal chronicle.
At some point, this piqued interest in pines will seem also a sting, a mote, a tear, some little

            hole — and also a throw of the dice.
The oracle’s leaves speak in complete incoherence — unmeasured, irregular, inarticulate

            sibilants; only after the fact do the priests assign meters; the Sybil resists any hint of

            explicitness, however delicious, but the priestess insists.
Chance patterns, xylomantic, enchant: the low rustle against sigh; the frantic chatter of the

            scatter; a subsequent silence; the rise and fall with which the forest seems, for a spell,

            together to descant.
Pines damp what the grasses amplify.
The copse sings with a shimmering musicality, agreeable and sweet.
The chorus, chanting, entrances; the forest reprises; the piner refrains; the aura, plangent,

            fades and abates.
A certain very fine air or wind finds its way — by dint makes out a path — and explores

            among the ponderosa.
A weight of conscience reckons among the conifers; the walker reflects, wonders, and thinks

            the matter over before reaching a conclusion — he makes a decision and then holds

            openly forth, continuing the canyon’s copse’s course.
Inaudibly, pitch-tipped needles tattoo their detail to the switch; they pattern the bed of the

            bend.
Just beyond the sylvan stream, the sap secretes like melatonin, disrupting the rhythms of the

            day.
The pitch of the pines darkens the daytime.
Waves lace the brace of the sea.
Under breeze, the lancing branches blanch. 
The music of the spruce mounts from spumid to acute.
A sieve of discriminating needles lue disseminating currents. Their cernicle scries as a searce;

            the cribble siles the range of the winds as a riddle filters certain sounds clean out.
Limbs shift in wind to sift, discretely, its noise into tones; their bolting garbles and gathers

            the notes into noise once again; a soft musical accompaniment, muted, acuminates.
Cast by chance on the carpet, shards of shadow spill from the coppice and, appalling, dispel

            — they scant as they scatter, then pool again, impelled by scintillæ to spall. 
The saunter of the pattern trances.
The tamis anthers sparge. 
The perse of the spruce fades from bice to argentate to azurine to blue.
Seed pods trip in rings their timber weights.
Winds strip the weeds in spates after simmers.
The breeze then decreases the stress of its shearing with an audible fall: an initial ictus,

            beginning with the arsis, descending to the thesis.
The wistful, listening, anticipate. 
An isthmus pierces the sweep of the sea.
A scrim of conifers fringes the inlet.
Firs, frim, meld and fret in the liquescent air; the humidity films as the spinet perspires.
One day in the middle of the third month of the terror, the season outpaces the cool of the

            pines.

[….]