And the touched tins sound like
Passive in ignorance
And tools of industry
They pile like clouds
So, I have a limited universe and I realize how often certain thoughts or images come up over and over and over in what I write. Exhibit A: Swallows. Have you heard them? They sound like tin. Exhibit B (which doesn't make an appearance here): Fog. And how you never catch up to it.
I think about these things (obviously too much) because I think they are beautiful. I just can never quite write down the beauty of it. I guess that's why God made the world and not me.