Aloft crested peaks that gently slope into her crossed legs, a bespectacled Grant Wood impersonating Oliver Wendell Douglas catcalls at Zsa Zsa Gabor pitching hay in the buff.
Say hello to city living as he drags her away from the lie of the land, full of rolling plains mainly dry of rain but green still. For across the lost horizon lined with ripened fruit stands erect their lone ribbed condominium perpendicular the junction where petticoats hang as if Kilroy was already there.
Time to harvest the seedlings planted late winter, she objects but the Hawkeye in him is too impatient, already late for his appointment with the family orthodontist waiting by an old easel, eager to paint. Yet even in a hurry, he does stop, though, just long enough to pose from her point of view and crops the depth of field provincially.
Now the fallow ground swells, an expanse isometrically compressing dormant plate tectonics to bubble up succubi transforming her pink fleshy body into verdant countryside.
So over the hill both eschew the flaneur promising drink and take turns to cultivate their own gardens at the pitched fork in the road.