As I’m writing this it’s 7 pm, another evening in September. At least 5 miles away from any kind of human being, watching a sunset in the middle of nothing, surrounded by fields of grass and trees with falling leaves, below the infinity of the blue sky that’s now painted by the setting sun. There are no clouds, it’s all clear, once in a while there’s a lost bird flying and singing it’s ballad.
How breathtaking can be to witness the glorious way this day ends. The air is getting colder as the breeze touches the yet green grass, then my pale skin. There’s nothing softer than the gentle touch of the wind. Butterflies are playing around, white and colored ones. From one flower to another, from the little white chamomile, to the violet and yellow flowers. How innocent, how happy they are, how peaceful the beating of their wings is. And there’s the harmonic sound of the crickets. They do nothing more than sing for the glory of nature, for the small petals moved by the beatings of the butterfly’s painted wings, for the Sun and the Moon that’s up already, maybe hoping to finally meet her lover, after all those years of separation, but the Sun starts fading slowly, going down in the same forest the Moon will, but hours later, when the Earth will be peacefully asleep.
Soon there will be nothing more than darkness filled with the songs that birds sing for yesterday, today and tomorrow, but until then, I’ll enjoy the last couple of minutes of the painted sky.