The city lay in the deep slumber of siesta. Only wild dogs and cats, on their eternal quest for food, could be seen wandering the streets. The dusty village rested on the crest of a small mountain, with a view of the lowlands a quarter mile below, its angular ravines, and a roaring river, whose thorny temperament could make it seem both inviting and terrifying. The warm currents of air from the citrus groves and the coffee plantations down in the valley wafted effortlessly up the slope, then fused in a tart aroma on the rooftops, right where the fog usually settled like a thick cap. But on this day the sky was clear. Before entering their houses early that afternoon, everyone had noticed with some astonishment the absence of the fog.
- From Winter Men by Jesper Bugge Kold
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