A handful of salt is slipping through the ground, going down the crust, crossing the mantle, getting close to the core and going back to the ground. It was sodium and chlorine. Now is the frost covering the windows from the village house. No one looks through it, but the spiders are walking on the roof. They are checking on the ants' parade at the worktop. The cock crows but is still soon for the sunrise. A man from the city trying to sleep in the cottage is looking for his earplugs on the night table, between the bottle of cognac and the packet of cigarettes that he didn't want to buy.
The stars are not lighting the earth because are so far away, but it seems like salt spread throughout the sky. The lights in the street aren't working either because by that time of the night it is so cold and better to be at home. So the mayor decided not to have lampposts. And so on it's been forty-seven years and the mayor has a lot to fight with.
The dawn will be in the morning and the frost is turning into dew. It can't evaporate yet because the baker has to come, but the goats and the children are already howling in the field. The cows moo and the bells of the church are pealing. No one cares about it because now life is different.
The river flows strongly because the mountain is sick of snow, which is white, like salt. Or like that ash coming from the earth to the sky.
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