living here 2007

Sitting at the small marble table in the round of the living room window, I look out. I see thick hazy forest sloping gracefully down the back of the San Salvatore.  Beyond, I see several other mountains seemingly fused together; pale and flesh like, their outline suggesting the shape of a large silent mouth.  A pinkish light emerges, darkening as it spreads towards the rooftops of Paradiso. Further along, I follow a line of trees that delicately defines the Malcantone against a milky sky.

On my way to work, I pull up onto the curb and step out of the car.  I lean against the sidewalk railing and face out over the lake.  The morning air shimmers with whiteness.  I look into the distance towards the causeway; a thin powdery line stretching from Melide to Bisone appears suspended in mid-air. I imagine the stream of early morning commuters, tapping on steering wheels to radio music as they motor across, on towards town.

I drive down the Via San Giorgio past the cemetery.  The caretaker stands in the doorway of his tool shed biting into a sandwich.  The magnolia tree by the churchyard has begun to blossom.  A delivery truck is parked outside the old people’s home, two young men unloading potted plants at the entrance. A busload of school children comes up on the opposite side, the driver nodding to me before disappearing around a bend.

I slip into the narrow street where I work. I stop and look across the lake at the large mountain facing me; the upper half obscured by heavy cloud.  Other than a few houses dotting the shoreline of Caprino, the remaining foot of the mountain weighs uninterrupted into the shadow of its own reflection.
My thoughts wander.

What do other people see when they look out.

Angela Lyn 2007