The last Sunday of November and it's a great sunny day.
It's ten o'clock when I leave the house for the mountains, and from the outskirts a penetrating smell of food on the fire spreads in the air.
I walk and think about the piece of panel I carry in my bag, a meager lunch in comparison and it's a lot if people are still dying of hunger somewhere.
I arrive on the hill as soon as the first climb has been made and I stop to contemplate the valley where the bells of the grazing flock and the bleating of the lambs can be heard.
And further away, at the foot of the jar, the farmer spreads the seeds on the damp earth where the ears will sprout for the future bread of all tables.
For him, like the shepherd, I send a grateful thought as I resume the path for the last climb that leads to the plain where the view extends all around on the infinite horizon.
And in that embrace the soul enjoys the air it breathes.
The nice and ready bread just now baked for everyone was not enough and it is not of little importance if you think about the anniversary that everyone needs bread but those left without left silent.
They didn't even say hello or give good wishes like the others did.
Pale and hard faces, almost breathless beings, shaky and insi[not readable]
-MC