Tree songs wailing with wavering wind gusts. Beasts, wild and urbane, relating rhythmically. Bearcats bumping. Kids colliding. Warblers … WARBLING! Meanwhile, pensive poets ponder pristine pentameter. Preposterous! Among the great gathering a tremendous squabble, rabble-rousing alongside reasoned reflecting. Over yonder a proud pile of rock, hardly rocking, not quite resonating, but still wholly riveting. Clouds coalescing, snakes slithering, stars shimmering, even misanthropes menacing. Everything spread thin through space and time, groaning. No thing, notwithstanding. Personal pleas persist— we are the liquor, the language, the lamentation and the luster. Now’s our time to beat upon the collective drum and blow the great horn. Go forth and sound your way.