Reports From Unknown Places on Nostr: We report: it is a windy day. The field is breathing in ripples, dry grass whistling ...

We report: it is a windy day. The field is breathing in ripples, dry grass whistling in rhythm. The barn behind us sounds like it is about to collapse, but it has held on until now. The swallows are swaying about the sky like paper planes. It still smells like sunshine, somehow.