I
Pigeons race around tufa edge –
inventing an ancient obligation
to guard invisible fences, shooing
feathered neighbors. They cling
to the beam with prideful
waddles. Little legs grip
onto weeds growing from rock
growing from fortress. Hundredth
generation pigeons in Orvieto
defend and demand a small square
footage of stone – just because
their Etruscan ancestors formed
this place with their bare claws.
II
A lion guards the arches
at Fontana del Leone – birds crawl
over his quiet body as he gazes out
toward the landscape. He greets
runners and the occasional car
with a mild roar and his small
kitten paws. The pigeons sit on
his furry head – they’re in charge now.
Hands stretch over the cliff
to feel if this is real – to believe
the view is not simply a backdrop
with recorded sounds of car horns
and rushing trains. Mountains drop
down and rolling hills peppered
with poppies act casual, as if all
landscapes look this good without trying.
III
Time stops under the arch. We climb
up a stream of cobblestones and move
into the arched cave. Clocks freeze here,
all thoughts of home are left at the base.
Unhurried steps move through ancient streets.
Days blur together and seasons lose meaning.
The arch has no gate or bars to keep time out,
but we abandon it in the grass before entering.
It begins again. Weaving through narrow
streets, the escape through the arch brings us
back to time. We pick up our bags, stuff time
into our suitcases. Watches furiously tick as we race
down funicular tracks and onto crowded trains.
Parking lot car horns, trains in arrivo and partenza
move onto the landscape backdrop and then travel on –
bringing people to work, home, the new, the familiar.
