Church bells ring, their metallic tone resonating through Corniglia, Italy. Thrushes form a chorus soon accompanied by unseen warblers. A car on the winding narrow road below slows, changes gears, accelerates up the incline. A roosters crows. One crow, two caws. Seagulls screech. The Hotel Cecio cleaves and clutches its high perch in the rocky terrain. The morning wind increases, moving leaves in the rose shrubs in the herb garden: scent of rosemary, scent of sage. To the north, reclaimed vineyards terrace the steep hillsides with their grey stone & green trees & sand-brown soil. To the south, the ancient village comprised of squares & rectangles both linear & horizontal—yellow, salmon, saffron, olive, pink, dawn-blue, fish-scale gray, or hewn stone—expanded organically by human lives conjoined with high walls & narrow walkways. A white moth glides toward the sumac near the hotel gate that opens down to the bridge that spans the creek that sings over stone down to the Mediterranean. A wash of waves whitens the sea beach. Beyond, a small dun fishing boat sailing in the distance. Beyond that, silence of the horizon line.