reflections in a small pond not so far from the railway tracks that often disturb the tranquil surface of the waters

the larch rests, moss-covered in the pleasant mist of the spring almost not started; the wet leaves stick to my soles and steps fill with the green that was and would be after the pale yellows and browns coming through fog, instantly lost as the drops from the twigs slowly condense across the dark wings […]

Read More reflections in a small pond not so far from the railway tracks that often disturb the tranquil surface of the waters