Sacred Labor | Meadow
George puffed on his pipe, the aroma of strong tobacco slowly filling the chilly morning air. It was the end of summer but the temperature had started to drop early this year. He sat on his porch watching the sky, as he always did. To anyone looking, the intensity of his gaze might give the impression that he was deeply yearning to be up there amongst the clouds. But of course, there was no one to notice. There had been no one for many years, ever since his wife Petunia passed.| meadow.cafe
