The ocean, like any woman: to understand her is to feel her. As I paused to breathe deeply into my belly, I tried …
As if a painter has flung his brush across the wind, scattering pinpoints of color across the landscape. Only the drops of color are not paint, but the drooping stars of flowers with names I know not, eagerly opening their faces to follow the sun.
I watch Pierpaolo at La Terra Agriturismo prepare a hearty feast for tonight’s guests as the wind blows grass over the waves of Umbrian hills, cigarette smoke wafts through the kitchen, and Franco Battiato echoes in the background.