I found this little crawfish already walking back down the dusty hill from Wal-Mart. He'd lost an antenna already and maybe wasn't long for the world but I took him back to the water anyway. I didn't cook him, as a certain Russian hitman might have advised.
Maybe it's the algae driving the crawfish out of the water. The water has been an opaque green for quite a while. The tadpoles certainly seem to like it.
That's a tennis shoe there in the possession of algae and tadpoles.
Twitter Sonnet #549
Eggplant popsicle bats watch the freezer.
Asylum vice squads arrange garish soups.
The General's wig was an appeaser.
Magic mares create special interest groups.
Graphite grids smear crudely on paper scars.
Bruised guesses repeatedly slap the phone.
Clamps compel animal eyes to count cars.
Erasers shred tallied flesh to the bone.
Vanilla dandruff on the brown duck speaks.
No crawfish crawls willingly to Wal Mart.
The torpedo refrigerator squeaks.
You'll find albacore swarms ate the next chart.
Malicious anti-goldfish rallies fade.
Lost dry crustaceans seek a mathless shade.