23 August 2016
On the balcony, a flock of small birds, fluttering in The valley
outside, in front of the window, swallows, swallow like.
But they are not swallows.
The moon is up over the scene, now waned to a half
moon, it seems smaller than yesterday. From the other
side of the shy the suns rays illuminate the hillsides
all covered in trees
Three belts, three quarters of an hour, the farmer throttles
his machine for a while, and then proceeds around the
hill. Now the sound is muffled.
And the birds have gone for a few minutes, maybe
they have found a flock of, or swarm of flies somewhere
dtse.
It is time to make holiday coffee.
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