His strumming stops. Six feet above his head a leaf lets go of its branch and settles on his shoe. Its colors are gray and soft yellow, he notes, and just like that the moment felt contrived.
He closes his eyes again and continues to strum. He imagines himself in a deserted peasant graveyard in France, pretending to play with a brimful saddened heart. He thinks he hears the tink of appreciation or guilt, and though grateful, he doesn't acknowledge his patron as she walks by glanceless and graceful.
No comments:
Post a Comment