Dumitru: Matcovschi Poezii

Then he handed the bucket to Ana.

Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed. Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

Ana listened. She heard the soft plink of a distant drip, the rustle of a poplar leaf, and the faint, endless hum of the summer heat. “The well?” she said. Then he handed the bucket to Ana

She found him sitting on the low stone wall, a worn volume of Dumitru Matcovschi open in his hands. He wasn’t reading. He was listening. the rustle of a poplar leaf