"An airplane is like a blister on the heavens," he said, looking up. "Get a grip," she said. "This garden isn't going to plant itself." There were two saplings angled against the fence, a wheelbarrow filled with perennials. He picked the trowel up, plunged it into the soil. Some personalities were so large they dispersed another's language altogether, he thought. Left it to languor in the lungs. She handed him some bulbs. "How deep do you want these holes?" he asked. She demonstrated without speaking. And when she turned, he noticed her shadow fill an empty bucket to the brim.
Robert Scotellaro
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Ways to Spend the Night
Pamela Painter