The clouds today look as if they belong on a ceiling somewhere in Italy. The blue of the sky a disarming, dream-inducing cerulean. All we need is a picnic. A small wedge of cheddar or an apple to split. The kind of banquet we used to have on our hikes through the hill towns. Picnic provisions we used to call them. Because when you are a traveler every meal is a picnic. A small celebration made up on the spot with what is at hand.
each bench in the courtyard