That insistence in the wind contains a longing – that dance in the reed beds forms the other edge of this moment – that place where we all live. The river that relieves its constant preserving flow, kneels in reverence to the day. Not all things remain the same, not all things come together – as now – as nano,tick, sec, mo. The Alder reaches skyward seeking some sort of redemption.
And what is this temple, this salvation, that quantity that expresses the expected value of the first, second, third and fourth power?
That deviation of each component of frequency – distribution from the same given value – the first agent in the mean, the second moment in the variance, the third moment in the skew – the forth in the kurtosis.
AND
We arrive new born under the sunlight of trees – at temples of forgotten worship: the doors are locked, the windows barred, the tabernacle broken – where once was fragrance, colour, sensation, touch, sunlight, love. Only this moment wraps the upper leaves of the forest. Only this moment sends shudders of joy to another God, another ‘other’. It quenches the soul and revitalizes – as Brighteyes was followed by Goldstone the Patriot. White sails reached for the horizon and burned. It was consequence, substance, note, value, gravity, which now envelopes, swathes, swaddles, encases, folds, laps. loves.
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James McLaughlin
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