AUTUMN STORM

The phone is ringing. I scapicollo to answer.

> ... this is the mayor, we warn you that it will rain excessively and the wind will be so strong .... etc ...>

There is no need to travel, there is no need to go into the woods, take refuge under the trees, wade through unsuspected and potentially lethal streams ...

It is a good idea to stay indoors, indoors and in the warmth ... work permitting.

The animals still need to be fed, although the whole herd is still grazing eating grass. The little calf born on Saturday night (the last born of this 2018), must be kept under control for a few more days. An eye to the mother and then they too together with the others, in the large pasture.

A heavy yellow air hangs over your head ... the wind, on the other hand, today takes your head off.Horses and cows sneak into the low forest, sheltered from this tumult. There is no water or cold or snow that is as unbearable and annoying to them as wind is.

The whirlwind of leaves, fallen branches, torn sheets of the ball holder, unknown plastics tangled in the shrubs on the side of the road. Muddy water and debris clog the dimples, everything bubbling and warbling. Noises, whistles and rumbles ... buckets of water and useless umbrellas. Heavy, soaked waxes ...

And then, as if by magic, everything subsides. The color of the sky resumes its normal appearance, the water falls thin and light, almost vaporized. Like smoke, the frayed cloud suffocates the blades of grass and it is clear that this time too, we have escaped it.

Like little gnomes with huge hats, on the lawn unscathed, rows of "paiciole" (drum bats, bubbole or puppole ...) resisted the storm ...

You know that? This year we found thousands of them ... we ate them every day ... We were the "pushers" of paiciole, for a lot of people, down in the village.

Each clearing was full of these mushrooms: fascinating, slender ... a little wrinkled. Dozens of them, among the thorns, in the middle of the sedge, among the fir needles, under rotted trunks ...

I can not stand it anymore. Don't ask me if I like them ... or if I roast them with parsley or if I use rosemary instead ... if I make them fried with breadcrumbs ... I could attack you, as if intoxicated, take you bad words.

...I can not stand it anymore. Maybe I hate them.

(But the collage ... it's nice.)