We thought that Italy might�
a little house in the country with nothing
to do but lie in bed and listen to the campanile ring out
another hour. But it won't stop raining and then a stripe of blood,

another month gone. Tired of weeping, I pour a glass
of wine�Why the hell not�and walk outside. The sun
a bad joke, and everywhere, birds like tiny madmen, each one trilling
its single note. Some of the trees are budding, some have not even started

but the mimosa's long since flowered, its yellow tufts already gone brown.
The chickens distract, so I sip and watch the rooster
waggle his red crown, tip back his beak and crow. The hens rush up
as if I held some treasure, something they've been waiting for

for years. From here the neighbor's horses look like a painting,
the pair of them standing among olive trees, drinking rainwater
from a blue oilcan. The brown one turns to me, her white flame
flashing, but the pale one keeps her distance, remote

and lovely as the moon. Who knows what they are thinking?  
Later I'll cross the road and visit the dogs, locked
in their wire pens. They pace and bark day and night�it's all
they can think of to do. I will thread a finger through, barely

reaching the nose of the young yellow Lab, the one who stares out
mutely, all innocence and yearning, as if patience alone will save her.