Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
On the patio of this coffeeshop, the birds are familiar, near, looking about with a certain unguarded frankness in a way that tempers their natural birdy agitation, necks twisting rapidly this way and that, locking in place here, here, there, to keep an eye out. Steps ascending from the building's corner to the parking lot provide a little bird mezzanine on which they congregate, hop about. At the corner, a stretch of the building's bricks are each worn, recessed from the mortar's grid, to create a pigeonholed array of alcoves in which they alight to stoop and peck, though they are not pigeons.
A full three cars brazened their way into and through the intersection, two straight ahead in their lanes, another behind turning left, well after all the lights had changed, and when the driver on the opposite side who had already come to a stop for the red started anew into the intersection before coming calmly to her senses and stopping again, her reaction was marked not by the abrupt, bodily jerk of a mechanical counterreaction, but by an uncanny glimpse of the spectator within the whole contraption, withdrawing from engagement upon realizing that her autonomous body, or its situation, or its world, had almost led her astray.
Potholes in the bricks, filled; an abandoned shopping cart, gone.
That is definitely a nun.
A blue that seems to reset the colors beneath it.
The grammar of 'I hope', 'You better hope', 'I better hope'*.
('Of course, if water boils in a pot, steam comes out of the pot, and also a picture of steam comes out of a picture of the pot. But what if one insisted on saying that there must also be something boiling in the picture of the pot?')
'Good luck', says one barista to another who goes off to clean a bathroom.