Harp

No it is not a whisp. Rather a swish the hand barely gets past. Cease obsequity at once while girl children bemoan a requisite levity. Starch makes one good bedfellow. Listen to parched surfaces rivet the skin initially disinclined. A virginal repose lets go smoke signals festering in film noir. Once a plucky thread of speech gone stiff enough to frame then blaze of interior cupped by rounded garment brush washing safety wanted as unclasped. The opposite of a tourniquet she said. I averted my eyes in favor of listening. And then along came thundersnow as picturesque as temptation usually is. What glistens thus her eyes. Affixed on some unscheduled rumination yielding the act of forwarding mail. Come ripple through my nest like beads of jest. Particulates notwithstanding each reminiscence brims with caustic gist. A frame you might have invented near inflections scattered about the yard where chickens sense the source of grain.