Snowy floodplain near Stagno Lombardo, Lombardy, Italy



             Cold yellow, as of winter sun; even the silhouette of stocky white

             mulberries—usually might and sharp—looks fuzzy, virtually


             rubbed out by the glare. The air sizzles noiselessly, pervades

             the outerwear, invades into the mouth, slips liquid down


             the windpipe. And in front of the breadth, of the overflowing energy

             of the glittering sweep, one would want to be the river—streaming


             careless through it, not bothered at all, about still—subverter of

             time and disrupter of space. One would nearly miss the uncolored


             clouds—shapeless cover, border and detail swallower which

             compacts everything, in so doing annulling it. One instinctively seeks


             a mark, a scratch in the glow that brings back to time and reinstates

             in space, a sheet anchor. So, between a row of skeletal poplars and the


             water-grazing flight of crows, at last one yields to diffused light,


             the illusion of being able to gather and dominate it by reciting a line by


             Tranströmer or humming a tune by Mussorgsky. For all one strives

             to have a way with it, the glints can't be stolen from the enfolding





                First published in The Interpreter's House (UK)