I open my backpack to take to eat, a fine moment comes and the snow covering everything in the bag. The flakes of snow, fed by the cold that envelops us, they resist even the fumes of our hot bodies. There refreshed, taking a little 'out of breath in the clearing of Rummo.
I like the glades, they're there in the woods, how to entice hikers to stop for a bit ', to feel the embrace of the mountain, before resuming the journey in the thick of the trees. In summer use to sit with his back against the trunk of a beech tree and feel the thrill of leaves stirred by the wind lies flat on the branches. The clearings steal my thoughts, making me a child again. A child with freckles, his hair tousled curls and runs to feel the wind caress your face, tears rigandogli cheeks come off like drops of life become airborne. A curious child's life, but still innocent to realize that with hard work will build its future. 
Today, that child became a man. The mountain became more and more in my life, in difficult times has been the grip to hold on to avoid falling. I have not forgotten the clear that many years ago made me dream. And today I became aware of fatigue and the difficulties of life by feeding del pane fatto con la farina del mio sacco. Nessuno sa che d’inverno le radure nascondono 
segreti, diventano luoghi magici dove il tempo pare fermarsi. I rami appisolati al sonno dell’inverno si adagiano intorno allo spiazzo. Il silenzio è straordinario, accompagnato solo dal respiro degli alberi. D’inverno è nelle radure che si percepisce maggiormente il senso dell’attesa prima dell’arrivo della primavera. Anche la vita dell’uomo è fatta di attese. Anzi a volte le attese costituiscono una chiave per vivere. Mi fermo. Faccio sfilare il gruppo. Adesso tutti sono avanti. Aspetto ancora un po’. Indugio. In questo stato d’animo open the possibility to dream and in the middle of the clearing, once again, to the wonder and amazement I see the smiles and tears of that child.
The fog engulfs us. Figures wander undefined shapes in the whirlwind of the snowflakes. Buffeted by the wind, my thought goes to his friend that is not made to continue and went back. I hope it is away from the cold of the storm. A group
stop, others continue. As in Dante's circle, forced to serve some kind of penalty, in line, tottering continue in the whiteness of the mist. We continue undeterred towards the ridge that divides the floor of the Piana del Pollino Toscano. And here, suddenly, from that sea of \u200b\u200bwhite resurfacing of two large pine guardians.
We approach while other mysterious creatures in the distance between the vapors of the mist, appear to meet us. They are the patriarchs of the Pollino mysterious, powerful, others dry and feeble, as knights of old, each with its own history and a shell, away from humans for thousands of years fighting the terrible forces of nature. Their beauty is alive and moving. I, a child, so small compared to everything, I can not do is wrap all in the heart of cold, wind, snow, hard work, friendship and joy ... and you enter the mountain area in the most secret recesses and hidden dell’uomo.
The fog engulfs us. Figures wander undefined shapes in the whirlwind of the snowflakes. Buffeted by the wind, my thought goes to his friend that is not made to continue and went back. I hope it is away from the cold of the storm. A group stop, others continue. As in Dante's circle, forced to serve some kind of penalty, in line, tottering continue in the whiteness of the mist. We continue undeterred towards the ridge that divides the floor of the Piana del Pollino Toscano. And here, suddenly, from that sea of \u200b\u200bwhite resurfacing of two large pine guardians.
We approach while other mysterious creatures in the distance between the vapors of the mist, appear to meet us. They are the patriarchs of the Pollino mysterious, powerful, others dry and feeble, as knights of old, each with its own history and a shell, away from humans for thousands of years fighting the terrible forces of nature. Their beauty is alive and moving. I, a child, so small compared to everything, I can not do is wrap all in the heart of cold, wind, snow, hard work, friendship and joy ... and you enter the mountain area in the most secret recesses and hidden dell’uomo. 
Le foto di questo post appaiono per gentile concessione di Mimmo Pace, vero figlio del sole e Adalberto Corraro. Grazie 
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