sometimes, for a few steps, my feet are resting on a bank of fine sand. and in the silence, i can hear a bird: i think it's a nightingale, but i must be wrong because they only sing in the evenings... this bird is relentlessly repeating the same phrase: voice of the morning, a recital in the shade, a delicious invitation to a journey between the elms. invisible and obstinate, it seems to be accompanying me through the leaves.
alain-fournier, the wanderer
(photos by matthew swiezynski)
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