In the garden where text blooms and weaves,
Twitter bounds, like timid hares, it grieves.
Lingering hands, too many peruse,
Snail slow now, its words they lose.

United like a faithful hound, seeks amends,
Ceasing to dance among the Newark trends.
In lunar glow, on fourth eve's tide,
Distractions die, a silent guide.

On Canada's coast where sea embraces night,
Dockworkers, like stubborn goats, ignite.
Pier to pier, their voices rise,
A rabbit's echo, in distant skies.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur