A woman talks about mother. Her words become a dance, and the story begins. An enigmatic note has been left on the table: “I’m going to the mountain.“ Who wrote it—mother then, or me now? The single ray of a flashlight roves through the darkness. The thundering roar of a falling tree lacerates the silence. Burning meadows, translucent horses, and beautiful mother in memory. A mysterious group, Wangel , does an uncanny dance, in gymnastic movements. While horses, horses, horses bound across snowy fields. These waves of images intersect with the woman ‘s unceasing monologue.
