What does slowness taste like? Maybe like fresh milk still warm from the udder, thick as morning mist, poured into a clay cup. Maybe like the scent of trampled thyme and wild chamomile, crushed under heavy hooves on a dirt road that has seen centuries of slow returns. The cows come home before dusk, their bells tolling soft, their breath rising in the cooling air, a village lullaby played in clanking metal and the murmur of distant voices. The earth, bruised by the day’s sun, exhales warmth, and