A foolish dog barks at a flying bird

It is no use painting the foot of the tree white, the strength of the bark cries out from beneath the paint.

In Montreal spring is like an autopsy. Everyone wants to see the inside of the frozen mammoth. Girls rip off their sleeves and the flesh is sweet and white, like wood under green bark. From the streets a sexual manifesto rises like an inflating tire, the winter has not killed us again!

His bark The daring mariner shall urge far o’er The Western wave, a smooth and level plain, Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.

Dogs don’t bark at parked cars.

The troubles of the young are soon over; they leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth the bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off, and looking carefully, you will see the scar there still. All that is buried is not dead.