Travel.

Storks under the moon, stray dogs, horses on the roads, pulling Roma carts or roaming loose, the roar of off-road vehicles, elusive swallows beneath the balcony and above the wires, the heady, honeyed scent of yellow and purple wildflowers, the sharp bends of mountain roads, mountains languishing under the scorching sun and smoking after thunderstorms, old men, skiers and sawmill owners mending, fixing and sawing. Sunset's blush on the rocky mountain spurs. Mists crawl out of hibernation in the hollows between shaggy slopes. Dust rises beneath furious wheels; the roar of off-road vehicles startles birds and pedestrians before the vehicles even appear, their drivers suntanned and dark-faced, with watchful eyes. Water straining along narrow, stony riverbeds. A bitten-off moon in the golden haze of dusk. The long lashes and thoughtful dark eyes of dun horses cropping grass, shaking tiresome horseflies from their gentle, elegant faces. Red road dust in the cool blue shade of emerald pines. The strained, unceasing chorus of crickets. Buying honey at the fair from an old woman, raspberries and potatoes from men by the roadside; a neighbour brings spicy sheep's cheese. The old man's witless rooster next door shrieks desperately every time it crosses the shadow of a lorry. Roses twine around fences, their delicate froth boiling over between the iron bars. The evening chain of barking dogs: walk down one street and an Alabai sounds a bass warning; all the other dogs take it up until the whole village is deafened by the barking. Ancient, indestructible green vehicles of a vaguely military sort, and tractors, parked on steep streets, with cobblestones wedged beneath their wheels.