As much as I love my fathers cave, I like to get out of the hollow again after some good food from the camp fire. Run, fast, to get to the woods, surrounding the meadows I grew up in and the houses standing there, staring in the silently falling snow.

After my parents broke up, my father left the house over night a and moved in to this strange dark white-golden pink place, whilst I lived here looking out to this daily changing always the same winter-spring-summer wonderworld.

The bell in the church tower back there in front of the hills rings on Sunday mornings. And the slide far behind the trees, yes, the tiny orange dot, it is new. I am not even sure, if you can see it on the Internet.

Can you hear the snow falling?


3 thoughts on “Snow.

  1. Pingback: Half Indian Doors and Memories in Little Red Note Books. « ⠁⠁⠁ I love light. I love air.

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