He lost his pocket watch in a flowery field, which seemed to him to be nothing more than a large family of identical siblings, each sharing the secret of the moment the clasp, after years of unheralded service, gave way to the coarse, stupidly predictable forces of attrition. The sun, an able co-conspirator, hid behind a large fleecy cloud, its rays unable to glint on the watch's silvery face (oh what a temptation that must have been) and, with great discipline, averting an unforgivable betrayal, the spotting of a feathery foxhole by an irate and timeless field ambler. Even the cicadas, whose chirr has adapted over the years to mask half-hearted ticktocks, were part of the dastardly plan to deny him the likelyhood of showing up to Sunday school on time.

My violet-tinted blood tingles at the clandestine approach of spring. How do I know it's nearly spring? A wildflowery siren announced it just the other day.