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In Emilia-Romagna, resilient sun
keeping us warm still,
illicit mushroom gatherers through the woods
we wondered which were poison -

had found some which seemed good
erupted through the coverlet of leaves . . .
Concealing tops and edges
in your Apennines, a ridge

of cloud dropped rapidly over fir trees
toward the picnic spot you'd chosen.
Tinkling bells in the air told me
cattle somewhere near had come

down before chill drifts and swirls
that promised to engulf us -
but held off; above the generous
spread of food, and father's wine,
...