“Look up there! There it is! It looks like a witch! Doesn’t it look like a witch?” my neighbour’s child insistently asked to his friends. They didn’t seem to care much, so I went outside to see what he was talking about.
In a shyly quiet and faintly blue sky, a powered hang glider was throbbing away. Stable as on a freshly paved motorway, it slided, becominig tinier: a simple fly on a perfectly ironed curtain.
It took me quite a bit of concentration to focus on the object, to look at it just superficially, to perceive its colours as homogeneus and finally to get the picture right.
“Sure! It’s a witch on her broom..” I told him
We looked up to the sky: we both couldn’t see the hang glider anymore. There it was: one black witch flying who knows where, her hearth pounding like a noisy engine.