I called the wind,
on the tracks of
sand hinds,
among the dunes of
pastels.
A nightingale sang a
minor
sonata,
leaves of pink beech and juniper berries.
A silver lark runs,
snowflakes dance an
uneven dance,
the moraines with white moss and ice paintings on them.
A squirrel arranged a new acorn,
dry branches and brushwood,
a colorful carpet
by the river.
The wind is on a trip around the world.
.
Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor
.