“Providence and providence alone prunes the overgrowth blurring the pathways through the vineyard.” She said to me as the dust settled near the acrylic baseboards and moldings.
Four cars passed the front window in the moments between statement and response; a tuft of snow fell from the roof’s flashing; and, Seth Avett’s docile yet pensive voice asked “…are you aware of the shape I’m in?” from a clock radio in the side room.
Trusting that our respective directions will someday bend and converge rests in my foresight as a red bull’s-eye, seemingly indistinct past the tip of iron sights.
I have been fervent, near barmy with thoughts of Leopold and his cane passing by my door again and again.
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