a field somewhere, just outside the city. For a few million years has stayed under a blanket of ice. Then a group of individuals with very pronounced lower jaw settled there, lit fires and, on a stone pedestal, sacrificed an animal of strange gods. The millennia have passed. E 'was invented the plow, and some have sown wheat and barley. The camp was owned by monks, then the king, then a merchant and a farmer who eventually received from the Government a generous sum to sell it to the colorful procession of nanuncoli, daisies and red clover.
This field has had an eventful life. A German bomber, who left the target, we flew over during the war. The children have stopped long car trips to throw up its margins. The night people was lying there wondering if the lights in the sky were stars or satellites. Ornithologists have stepped on the foot with sand-colored socks are looking for families the Black Redstart. During a bicycle tour of the British Isles two pairs Norwegian vvi have camped for a night and, in their tents, they sang Anne knutsdotter Mollom Bakkar and of Berg. The foxes have look around and mice have made journeys of exploration. The worms do not come out of their dens.
But for this field the time is up. The plot of dandelion taken will become the residence of the number 24. A few yards away, among the poppies, will be the garage of number 25 and there, between the White Campion, a dining room where someone who is not born one day quarrel with his parents. On the fence there will be a children's room, designed by a woman who working on a computer in an office with air conditioning in a complex next to a highway. In an airport halfway around the world will miss a man and his family will take care of his house, whose foundations have been dug where there is now a puddle ...
