The onion seller with the old white mustache talked sneeringly of others who would uproot onions before they were due and ripe under the earth.
Their money grew over the earth, high in the air.
His money grew quietly under the earth’s skin. His pretty pink onion bulbs ripened a silence. Sure he knew his onions and they their money. So he would pontificate under his old white mustache.
( A scrap of conversation I overheard in morning walk)