The first face cold and the days get shorter. The sky, if and when it is quiet, takes the intense blue of the mountains, which are sharp and clear the background of the postcard that I see from my balcony, farthest, the highest, from the first snow already greyed.
The north wind sweeps the clouds, the sky cleans, brings oxygen and vital cold which invites you to breathe deeply. I love this feeling, the cold wind that pushes you and supporting you, cutting his face, but warms the soul and urges us to think. The crystal pushes the sky looked away, trying to hide the stars, a crescent moon unexpected surprises you, diaphanous, remember, to confirm that there is much more besides.
Tramontana... intirizzito, ma con una quieta adrenalina che ti sostiene, assapori il vento che ti passa tra i capelli, rombo bassissimo e ineguale nelle orecchie, un messaggio? Cosa mi vuole dire? Come faccio a rispondere? Mi rilasso nel tepore della giacca pesante, le mani in tasca, leggere, lascio che gli spifferi entrino dal collo, facciano respirare tutto il mio corpo, e non sento più freddo, né fatica.
Ovindoli, tanti anni fa. Era una giornata così, e camminando mi sono sporto per caso oltre il crinale: una raffica violenta e gelida mi ha quasi fatto cadere. Sono salito ancora, il vento era teso, gelido, sotto me into a narrow valley that ran in the north which had stuck to spring up, violent, tsunamis air. I was long on that ridge, suspended in time and space, the pressure was strong enough to make me believe I could leave, I could soar, off the ground, from everything and everyone, that you forget the weight rests on the chest. And fly.
But now I'm the north wind.
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