A walk out where wandering made sense. A note of three words only. The wolf interviewed potential victims and found no takers. Everyone wants to be grandmother these days.
A vortex in which horticultural inclinations are suppressed. He wrote, again. Tilting the fan away, its small whir a balm amidst the more angry sounds of traffic. Sleep where once a lily grew, right there on the dew-swept bank.
A coffin-sized hat went rolling down the hill until a boulder stopped it short. Shades, lunar phases. With trumpet in hand he marched down the street, wiping away sweat, despite the morning cool. Was the sky ever the point, he wondered.
Jonathan Edwards doing a jig, balanced on a gimpy but game brown mare. The lecture fell flat and the room emptied quickly, which he could not help but see as a comment on the overall direction of his life. He wrote, then climbed the thirteen stairs, head down. Save your wishes for whatever comes next.
A shadow mistaken for the family dog there by the house's southwest corner. White pillars that required frequent painting and so were ignored. The blur of roadside greenery. In all of it, the lack of a good handler.