The snow squeaks under the boot, a thin whisper that blends with the rustling of a branch, the ice cream dripping from a rock. Every now and then the thud a branch that releases an excess of snow, sometimes the crash of a branch that does not have it done. And the silent flight of two Red Kites, photographed buildings in the air chilled.
Taste of snow on the palate, the smell of cold wind and resin-The forest is a mass of crystallized water and carbon living, pulsing slowly under the bark of cold.
The only living thing, a crow alliscia pens, from a dead tree. But under him a hundred eyes stare silent shadows of light under the blanket of white. Winter will be tough, as each winter to come, and an entire population of paws, tails and small eyes wonders whether blacks will see another spring.
Winter is a terrible enemy, for those who live, but it is indulgent. The winter kill, but not exterminated. The forest will again flourish. Winter is not fire, it is not concrete, not bulldozers, and even acid rain. The winter wind is that stupid, that snow melts in the sun in March. Winter is a breath in the forest.
The forest suddenly illuminated by a blazing sun. A dazzling sunset before the ice back to sleep at night.
Outside the grip of concrete advances, meter by meter. Without stopping.
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