le Moulin à Nef, Auvillar, France
 
My studio window looks out at the Garonne
which has nothing to do all day but unroll 
 
its bolt of green linen.  Up the hill is the sunlit village
with its half-timbered houses and one boulangerie.
 
During the day, pilgrims on the Compostelle, the field
of stars, hump their rucksacks up the steep streets.
 
O vivre douceur!  It’s fall,
and the light is golden, alchemical.
 
Bake us into sun warm brick, carve us out of ancient stone.
Soon the moon will slip from its mooring, ride the river of night alone.