It happened a few months ago in November, in the farmhouse I own in the Marche hills. In that period of the year the colors of the mythical summer of San Martino expand in a metamorphic scale of colours: the intense yellows, the different shades of greens and the bursting reds that nature is capable of offering in the melancholy sunny autumn season faint, had then transformed into a milky white gray caused by an impenetrable and obstinate fog, to the point that the centuries-old oak tree in the garden, which had always been a welcoming meeting place for migratory birds and squirrels, appeared like a dark presence overlooking my house and he seemed to want to devour her.
