Valley and church

From here i look down on the silent majority

digging under the watchfull eye of an old grey dog

The wind touches my face and i am listening to the sound

that rushes through the canopy of the trees beneath my feet

My perspective locks on to the small stream and the bridge

that probably has been made of the thickest wood they could find

I follow the slow streaming river until i see an old abonded church

And it looks like an wounded giant amongst the small red-brown houses.

 

 

◄ Pissarro 1868

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