Return from the summer pasture

'Get up that the popular song is passing', sings an Italian singer-songwriter. Certainly it has been a long time, from morning to dawn, that in the village we hear the swaying of the cowbells around the neck of the sheep, marching towards the village. A living river that bleats and obeys, that remains compact and does not disperse behind the shepherd's staff. Many sheep, some black, some goats and little lambs, some must be kept, kept in the middle, protected and so that they obey. Primaluna which is leaning against the mountain, with the Church which is necessarily small and the stream which has also been governed and terraced due to the great jump. From that bridge you also pass with the herd and who knows if even the parish priest gives a blessing to that wealth, to all the milk that turns into cheese. The cold season comes, everyone, even the animals must stay warm and keep themselves. You learn in the mountains that cheese must be preserved and eaten only with bread, because it must be enough to pass the winter, cold and milky white.