In the Gargano peninsula our passage was obstructed by:
Long-eared goats, eating the road, a black host working as
A ponderous but effective team; several large but athletic
Cows; vicious wild dogs who saw us as their sport;
Snowdrifts, migrated from another Northern Clime;
A bass band in Rodi serenading beneath the old fir tree;
The small towns themselves, designed by a technophobe
To challenge the capacity of the automobile.

Of them all the snow was the meanest
Opponent. Miles upon blinding miles of
Concentration, programming the journey
As a route of no return; the flood’s revenge.


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