The bus was proceeding towards the city, a little skidding in curves. It was about seven three-quarters, the sun lit up my world already. I looked out the window at the scenery. To my right fields and green forests, before me the outskirts of the city where the bus I was leading, inexorably, to one of my last days of seventh grade. To my left a small valley between two hills depressed, was perched on the highest Urbino, the town from the windows shining light of summer. In the valley of wheat fields. What I was looking that moment was caught between the road and a small garden. I noticed the difference: while the rest of the field had already been cut, the wheat, still uneducated, had formed a soft mantle of oscillating spikes. I went to another one plowed and left, with no particular interest, my eyes ran along the pace of a vehicle. Then I saw him and frowned, turned to me not to lose sight and grasp well the forms, but we were already gone and the bus, cruel, continued. I risistemai seat, confused, then I tried to keep quiet.
There was a black cat and red gold field in the vast, immortal and stared straight ahead in the heat of the morning.
There was a black cat and red gold field in the vast, immortal and stared straight ahead in the heat of the morning.
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