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It was a summer hot day and I was lingering on a bare tree. It is to say: I was driving on the highway and saw it standing, all alone, enveloped in November fog, and lingered on it.
With as many as a hundred bare branches, it reached for the sky asking: is this summer? Is this winter? Or spring? Autumn?
In the evening, as I read from the book The Four Seasons to my little daughter, she asked, "Mommy, is it about to snow?" "The seasons are a little confused," I said. It made me sad.
Because I suspect that she will never be able to skate on a river or maybe even make a snowman in the garden. That the four seasons may always remain for her something abstract, something out of books and - at best - by Vivaldi.
At night I dreamed about the climate summit. The attendees stood scattered like bare trees, their arms disheveled in the air, shouting in the desert.
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