The end of May 1940. Slowly advancing, side by side, Ferrante and his son Stefano were cutting the meadow. Behind them the small chestnut horse, tied to the cart, was waiting. It had already finished the entire pile of grass Stefano had put in front of it when they began their work. The horse had eaten eagerly, continually lifting and shaking its head to shrug off the bulky collar that was sliding along its neck. Now, without taking a step, it reached forth with its muzzle to tear off the leaves from the mulberry tree, where it had been left in the shade; it also tore at the bark of the more tender branches, which looked broken and white as tiny bones where the horse's teeth had left their mark.
- From The Red Horse by Eugenio Corti
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