A hush when we enter the falconry—as if
what passes for ghosts are just these forms—
the selves turn their tufted heads.
We hiked twenty minutes up the hillside of Varenna
to Vezio. On the cobblestone path,
ancient sisters leaned together, laughed.
Bowers of roses overhang what I cannot grasp—
time’s hot scented rosemary. Over
the next ridge, olive groves ripple
down to what is indigo in Lago di Como. A red-tailed hawk,
a falcon, the great horned owl named
Artù. In the pools where our
eyes meet: prey, predator, a quiet so interior
they remain just fleet & temporary housing
for what I may know—when
I cease to know.