Like the Windmills of my Beard

A subject near, and deer, and altogether beardful. This beard is your beard. A North American marvel of engineering, the USGS, aghast, once measured the longest strand at 1241 miles, as the crow flies.

But crows don't know ether. They rely on tradition and warm currents to obtain the lift required for a journey of this magnitude, for their beards are not lichen, and rarely grow on trees.

But the reindeer has a beard. Greyer and less manageable than the deer we used to know, its hoofbeats remind us less of thunder than the softer foods we hunt and kill, now that winter's teeth are bare.

Incoming . . . are those choppers I hear? My beard is your beard, growing from the ears of corn I saw in a movie once; row after row after row of popcorn in my teeth, but what need have we of teeth, or antlers, or beards?

Windmills, maybe, to fluff the breeze.


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