S.B.T. 432

sweet pungent pine needles bruised by summer heat

mellowed in the winter draped with snow

yellow cliffs red clay dwellings distant thundering beat

part the clouds - peel back the sky and glow

“silver apples of the moon” “Hi Ho Silver, Away!” 

silver is not often used in titles

for transformative stunning effect

but can be a bracelet slipped onto your wrist

here the maestro Alan Silvestri, amidst

loveliness and cool stuff

Music by Alan Silvestri

S.B.T. 431

By stroke of luck,  which a day ago I declared a life half-full of, Bernard Herrmann showed up. There he appeared between trees, with his dog, sauntering down a shady lane, both paused half-turned staring with stock-still camera eyes. During this last week I ‘d sensed something was coming, a slowly amping up vague feeling that disquietude was pending, uncertainty of, like, not-a-clue.

though, in anticipation, spying about, a low belly panther creeping under lush canopies in full daylight trying to peek at you my prey from behind the tall grasses and jungle trees near the shore. 
yeah, noticing the illumination of certain  seemingly domran, modnar, and random, chances given in correspondence to previously spoken word(s. 
that’s how it works, so ask for it, politely, at first.

So here he is, Bernard and Twi the dog, kindly and gladly championing multimedia mewzic, all at once several stories high on the street where you live. Unbelievable. At first anyway, but now quite for sure believable - um, let’s say, it’s “there”.  We were engaging in half-serious plans about a partnership in the offing as long as no offence could be taken or offered by any others in the league.  Off the fence, he’s often sitting around here somewhere.