Listening to the rasping flute of a shepherd, captivated by the wind of who knows what beauty, having fun with blind man's buffalo and corner snatch in the lambing shed, complaining of henna from mossy stones, cowering in the stony place, playing hand in hand in the dairy farm, rolling a log in the field, going to the Kömüş dairy to find a lost black goat, scurrying after a cow that has entered the crop, waiting for the sheep in Çalıtarla, herding the sables in Alipınarı, eating fetil in the shade of the acorns in Kıran at dawn, boiling bulgur by the spring and waiting for the sergu lying among the sackcloth at the harvest, nibbling in the honeycomb of a hidden spring, peeling ilic from the pine tops in spring, burying potatoes in the ashes, eating freshly baked pağaç from among the dastar, brewing tea with highland water from blackened teapots, chatting in the dim light of a sooty kerosene lamp, Listening to folk songs on the radio, hearing the sound of a weather vane on the end of a pole at the top of the mountain house at night, and waking up before dawn and being reborn in the coolness of each morning…
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