It has been snowing all day long, but there is no trace of snow anywhere you look. And you can see quite far from the Motovun heights. This morning, the snow stuck to the trees and bushes above two-hundred and fifty meters or so, but it has melted by the late afternoon. Clearly, it is too warm for it. At any rate, it is kind of strange watching the snow that has no traction. No grip. And no toehold. One feels like commiserating with the poor thing. Or, even better, offering it some feisty encouragement. “Come on,” I can see and hear myself shouting from my terrace, “be a real snow!” Yes, my hands are already shaping into fists.