Odor of copper, odor of cold.
Odor of winter, of difficult times.
The copper doesn’t smell, but the hand does when it worked on it.
The sky is a fearful blue hole which spreads silence.
In the remote valleys the snow takes on a skin like egg white beaten to cream just taken from the oven.
It’s so cold that the smoke from the chimneys slides through the air like lava flowing upwards.
In winter.

Eva Lootz