Sunday. The sky is blue. The sun slowly disappears. A thick fog arrives pushed by a cold wind. Violent wind. I hear it rise up and then diminish. The fog continues to advance.Subsides.In the openings, the sun softens, while over there towards the south, it turns the ridgeline pink. No more than a minute it lasts. Pink even softer, at ground level, so white the snow, so black the bushes. Sublime time of contemplative solitude. While returning I think to myself that this evening I would like to stay quietly “at home”rather than dining with neighbors. But, I had not warned them. It is 6 o’clock and I had promised rice with sauted vegetables. So I arrived at 6:30 with the casserole. In the end, I had a good time and a delicious dinner. Staying in my mind, the spun pink of the morada.