Head down, watching his boots appear and disappear, the puffs of dust in their dropping, Carl had not seen the little road and was startled by its sudden presence, as if it had been a snake he had come upon walking and not merely a jog to the west.
The road was half again as small as the road he walked, converging at a fair angle to make a tight wedge in which clouds of elderflower hung in a thick of thistle and daylilies, a sort of sunset, Carl mused, of lavender and orange fire. Planted in with the growth there was a sign, a whitewashed clapboard on which black letters had been carefully executed to indicate that fresh eggs and seasonal pies could be found up the little road in less than one mile’s time.
Carl had no need for eggs at the moment, but had never turned down an invitation of any sort for pie, and curious as to what might be seasonal, veered from his northward course, west in the direction the well-painted sign had so meticulously suggested.
Pie!!! need pie!
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