“So, you grew up where?”
“Small Town. Near the border.”
Smoke, emphasized by the monitors blue haze, formed silhouetted patterns that drifted toward the small opening in the window.
The March Rain and Sleet, driven by a Northern Wind, pounded the glass windowpane. Glancing thorough the window and into nights darkness, tall white pines danced together the yard. And if one listened close, the distant angry roar of Lake Ontario broke the intermittent lull of the wind.
Another drag. More patterns.
“The border?”
“ During the warm summer days, you could hear the Fog Horns guiding the ships traveling down the canal.” “ Melodic in their musical patterns but frightening while sleeping at night” “Large Horned Monsters mating”
“And of course, the vineyards, carrying the sweet fragrance of Grape, Peaches and Pears”
More typing coming in from the monitors other side.
“ So vague. Keeping me guessing are ya”