Everything went so fast, I didn’t have time to react. He walked through a path in the term called payment Malarina, jurisdiction of the town of Laguardia, for more signs. They were eleven o’clock in the morning on a Sunday in January. He sensed that the sun shone on me, but the thick fog which covered the field could not see beyond six steps. The humidity of the room transferred the thick overcoat and froze the bones, fragile due to age and years of working outdoors. The result of the dedication, in body and soul, into wineries. Everything was white, a frosty white. The trees were of glass, and light poles, hung over five palmos icicles.
The way herbs are fracturing to each tread. No animal had decided to leave his shelter against that background. I remember the look of a strain, even without pruning, there was nothing more beautiful, and more design, nor in the MoMa in New York. Nature is known and very good artist, I thought. Abandoning the narrow road, and turning to the right, the path is anchaba.
A shadow appeared suddenly, was big, walking with difficulty and in his hands was carrying something, that by the position, was a weapon. A shotgun had his owner, was the Hunter. Known in the region, was a great person, in all aspects, by his size, and his kindness and dedication to others. Somewhat disordered life, Bill had passed him, betrayed his way of walking, dragging his left foot. But it was not a reason to stay home while partridges and rabbits thrived at ease through the vast region. We greet us with a slight nod, exchanged some phrases related to the time and the Partridge, which hung next to the Bandolier, and continue our respective paths. I wondered how he would have killed that male nice, with the fog that had no dog.