It was one of these hot summer days when, in the still air of the afternoon, a bicycle stopped near me.
The man that was riding it left the bicycle at a side and walked under my leaves to rest in the shadow. He took his straw hat off, bended his light linen jacket at a side and sat with his back on my trunk. He remained like this for few minutes observing the nature around then, he took out of the jacket’s pocket a little black book and a pen.
The cicadas were singing loud and their song told me this man was a poet writing about us on his moleskine.
(The Olive Tree Tales)
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