A sunny winter in Florence.
Early morning—blue and gold, and
the black Florentine air—eeny meeny miney moe—has completely vanished from the city: and is now wrapping up and flowing down the hills that are more orbital than surrounding.
Above the hills—the still-white night sky slowly turns blue. And between the hills, red Tuscan brushwood burns, which will soon become gold…
The conjoined sky.
The mooing hills.
The well-defined valleys.
The cypresses are like folded umbrellas,
and the stone pines—unfolded.
Under the stone pines and cypresses, Italians brushed the drips from their gray hair in the rear-view mirrors of their own and others’ motor scooters and sang sweetly with voices as hoarse as though they had an Italian three-day stubble.