There were sounds, so gentle, so quiet, too close to the sound of silence. Some barking dog over there, maybe a solitary noise of a motor, far away, diminishing every minute, until its dissipation in the air, as a pale color on a canvas, turning almost white.
The night progressed slowly, charged by dark hues in those skies of that little cozy house, at the mountain. Then, when the morning stepped up its timid entrance, we heard “clank, clank, clank”, once and again, almost for the rest of the day.
But do not think it was bothering us. On the contrary, the clank was part of the air, like a signature of the place, besides the green, and the apple trees.
A couple of wonderful horses, one of them with a cowbell, ran toward us every time they saw our proximity, to check – if possible – our hands, searching for carrots.
This is one of them, portrait of those magical mountains, free, wild and indomitable.