On a July evening

Evening comes. In a gentle range
the clouds are slightly golden.
As if the canvas is pushed into a frame,
nothing to give or take. From afar

the wind brings a ringing voice,
then barking is heard in the village...
My keen eye watches the sky,
come on, paint a sketch.

The midge, smelling the paint,
has slightly reduced its ardor.
And the wind gives its caresses,
and whispers not to leave.

And there is no desire to leave.
A wonderful evening, beauty.
Flights are taking off overhead:
swifts, bawl, as always.