Thursday, 13 August 2020
Field
The wind swiftly run through the field making rye whisper. It was the whisper of summer slowly bidding goodbye. It was a bid sad but full of sun. The whisper that you can almost feel on your skin or taste in your mouth. It is a bit warm and soothing and it tastes of dry bread that you found in your back pack after long trecking through woods. The golden field whispers in waves.
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