A friend traveling in Italy writes…
swallows rise from the earth
jetting into arcs that do not intersect.
they fly as though they have been launched
by the young boys on the piazza below
who shout italian epithets to go
faster and higher, each boy urging
his bird to reach the bell tower first
where the setting sun will reflect the pink
and white stone of Santa Chiara
and the bells will toll one last time before
morning. the birds don’t listen to the boys
nor notice the middle-aged lovers (not us)
who kiss as though they were obligated
by the twilight of Assisi. the swallows
dissect the sky and i see the olive trees,
the spires, the towers of Rocca Maggoire
and it all makes such sense to me, this puzzle
of a world, the way it fits that you and I
are here right now, happily stalled
in a city of birdsong, a city of bells.
—Carolyn Briggs
