Blackbirds sing before the first bells of St. Agostino. They sing again after the bells, too. The Blackbird’s vigorous song is like that of the American Robin and, in drowsy reverie, I braid the peels of Blackbirds, Robins, and bells.
A slant of light comes through the lace curtains to make a lace of shadow on the wall. I have forgotten to set my alarm. This doesn’t matter.
I walk later in the sun. Veronicas and violets bloom among the grasses below the town wall. Hairs of fresh, dark nettle leaves catch the sun. I am drawn to them but don’t touch. Stalks of nettle flowers bend like purple tongues from the tops of plants. Green stigmas of the females are recurved against the purple.
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