Some nostalgia and possible landscapes from here. (so many years it doesn't matter)

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I discovered that the fishermen from my maternal grandmother's album and those from my paternal family fished in the same river, the Paranaíba. 

The end of what I see of the city in the distance is as unknown as what I cannot see from a nearby path.

I found that just as we recognize each other in any corner, so do the trees.

I found out that when hearing that the leaf-covered floor of the Bougainville would be swept, my grandmother said: "Leave them there, it's so bucolic" 
A cousin, still a child, who heard his grandmother's request, started to call them like that: bucolic.