The old wizard concentrated with his eyes closed, ignoring the world around him; after not too long, he could hear the whispering distinguish itself from the breeze. He never caught every word, or even most. Some days he was lucky to pick out a word here and a phrase there.
Today it was as if they wanted him to hear. “High grounds. To the hills.”
He thought of farm animals predicting earthquakes, inclement weather. He put the old fedora onto his head, stood creakily up from the park bench, and hobbled over to the sidewalk to flag down a cab.
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