A Swallow Must Find the Right Kind of the Soil

He came in mid-March with eyes bluer than the deepest point of the ocean and he was an ocean ended searching for the last drops to create a tiny mud bead where his dried marrow can crawl in pin-feathers developed ahead of time introducing that taste of blood which stood like obscure cumulonimbus above his shrunken chest as a warning bells were shouting at loudest so no one could hear his tones but I took that glance at your notebook stealthily and saw through those written letters how that cloud colored your eyes