The moon

At night, sometimes, Anguilla enjoys the fresh air from the hotel balcony. He stares at the hills, above the “handful of roofs” of the village, and at the moon, so high in the sky, unreachable: “I saw the August moon again, between the alders and reeds on the Belbo gravel, and each thread of that stream fill with silver. I knew that all around the great hills towered…”


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