boogieone

That it seemed it could speak.
And it seemed we could run for chilometers of harvested fields, of hay in big round balls. And ditches before, and then the fat and grey river.
And it seemed we could hear it talk. And tell about people, beasts, and tell about dogs. Tell about life, and wind.
Evenings at the windows, to look out. And nights full of its noises.
And it seemed that to lengthen the hand I could guess its thickness, and its infinite identity.

That it seemed it could speak today, this amazing autumn sky.