Earlier than usual, the first rays from the sun barely touching the top of the world. The village just beginning to wake, sounds from the square, the first cafés opening. A few voices still with sleep in them, and a single car. Otherwise just cicadas and birds. Everything bright and fresh. The view was always great. The mountains across the valley, rising up like you could just stretch your arm and reach the steep cliffs. This morning was blessed with an extra delight: Clouds just touching the tops of those mountains, while hurling and whirling around. Like clouds do when you're almost inside them. The capelo at the highest top, usually blinding white in the sun, was covered. The spectacular scenery unfolded. While playing with the rising sun, the clouds teasing and rolling forth and back, giving glimpses of the different highest points. And, once in a while, that tiny capelo, almost blinding. It was one of those moments. They are sacred; and they last forever. A rare moment. In a few minutes the sun was too strong, and the last remnants of clouds retreated. Now the capelo was master of ceremonies. A true master. Such a moment that makes you believe in something; a higher power, a divinity. Maybe to be found in that glorious capelo. Or in the moment itself. Whatever the difference: A moment to keep.
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