Sylvan lived his life under the Gimble.
He whimmed the nodgrass at the Gimble’s base—tending the needled hordes of dambies and tordleboes.
Now and again, something strange would blow in—a bit of somewhere else.
Fascinated, he would study it—bubblegum paper, horoscopic want-ads, marketing and relativistic politics.
He considered the intruding graff, under the Gimble, until tendrils of vino and trill flowers wrapped around his steethy feet. Finally, he threw the stuff toward from where it came.
Nothing ever came twice.
Sylvan would steer the sunset down with his gaze and dance.
He would explore his introspect, reaching down toward understanding. It was something free he found inside himself. A gift.
Each time the sun’s rosy rays sleed across the Gimble’s topmost, and the haze came snortled and shuff, he gained more of himself—bellied his gettin-its.
Then he would sing sweet voolish troppers to ears and hearts—painting sleep into the cracks, stretting dreams and hoping light into nodding eyes.