There are blue layers in the sky, like brush strokes on canvas. Striped sky on display for us to admire. Not quite the kind that would make lightning but the kind that could feel like rain. Clouds keep moving north, like a train of thought they wander across the horizon. They will pass in the distance, leaving us dry and warm.
We sit under a tree and talk. Sharing. A shadow of a branch softly sweeps the ground. The wheat and rye fields under the striped horizon strech out to the borders of new villages. There is nothing more soothing than watching the sun and the wind caress the softly moving sea, either this one with ripening crop or the real one.
While listening to your stories from far away places I see us drifting in a small boat on the sea of rye. Waiting for the next harbor to come our way to bring us new adventures. I tell you this and we laugh. Two sailors on the sea of rye.