Surprise Sentence, Again

So many of these places dispel the crisp leafy shade, even as summer wears on. These places of change and being tuned create packages paid for, shipped, dazzled by preemptive sales while handed over, sporting a religious history in a nation of quiet moods before the final tally. Oh, and it could only be love that sparks revival, yours and mine, with snippets of robin song and crash of crows. Oh, more than that, ladder to the right window, to climb out and down, and the word of wind in trees. Trees, then, and we each find a branch. The air is filled with words and music while the wind sways our perches. Nothing is sold forever. The tribe wants to colour its distinctions yet we live on in our summer, edge of fall. No falling remains to indict, just the rampage west of here, the sweet meadow and the cloying marsh, where algae covers turtles with stray humiliation. Where's the indignation? In a day or so, we'll return to the porch. The cutting street and its merrie business will slap us silly with surprise. People will continue traipsing to places full of traipsing people, and the minute will go on.