Noon. Ripe. I ready myself for the arrow. I leech the animal of its nook. Running its tongue I call it pity. But my lawn is no garden to songbirds. Brushing, plunging, barking this noon-virtue, this verily-green, my spores ache in their vibrations. My Ears shift, purple and Thick. My Circular purges its own curve. My belly, My smell, My thigh still holds the entire body. My teeth soak in a violence of sand.