Life under the mountain

In a small village under a mountain, life slows down, and everything becomes like in childhood — meaningful. All trees are necessarily large. There are no trifles here and no need to watch the hours, because the neighbor's grandmothers wander to mass at the same time. A big black dog always accompanies him to the porch, and footprints in deep paths always point to their owners. Like flowers carefully trampled in the snow, they speak of two little girls from a neighboring street. They, of course, do not admit, but everyone has long known that they agreed to bring spring closer. Although they are usually hindered by someone, probably the boys who build snowmen. I observe, I am saturated with slowness, I become one of the rare passers-by who knows for sure that one can live here with the heart, listen to the silence and just be.