Tremors in the woodline ache for able-than tapestries. Our times they sink accordingly; footwork being not so stable in the green rush of slides and snow departure. This not withstanding, the little peckers keep chiding you from high tops and boughs-- fat little bastids, bug-eyed and squirrelike. An ode, or better: a canon, then. Do it with one "n"...

... and able reaps the conduit.