Walda

It was a perfect morning of late summer. Beyond flat breadths of fertile fields the bluffs rose gently, and hill-side and plain were dotted with vineyards. Winding roads led through interlocking trees from which birds were taking flight. The flowers, heavily laden with dew, gave out a delightful fragrance. In the sky was the pink flush of dawn, and the morning star still kept watch over the hamlet from which the bustling, every-day world was shut out.