Orvieto

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.