I peered out my window this morning, out the window that had been left open overnight for the fresh mountain air. The illuminated clock tower glowed against the still dark sky. The bells rang seven times.

The village cow bells kept syncopated time. Clanginging, clang clanging. (Like phantom cows in the still dark dawn.) Beyond the outlining fence is a garden watched over daily by a grey haired man in overalls. It is too early now, but he will soon sit in his white lawn chair and follow the rays of the sun.

Beyond the garden is a large barn. Pulled up to the barn is a pickup truck, onto which a man loads a large silver container. The morning's milking already done.

While I journalled an hour later, sitting on a bench under the warming sun, two guys lead horses down the road. Their hooves clip-clopped. A car sped by, 25 miles per hour.

This kind of a routine...will it grow old after three months? What about the coming snow, when an after-dinner match of volleyball is no longer possible, when my jog would be better outfitted with snowshoes than New Balance runners? (New Balance indeed, perhaps on skis.)