Parco delle Cascine

Sparrows and sycamores, familiar;

bugs buzzing cicada-like in what are maybe elms, seem more intense in this arid heat, but are of different timbre and temperament

than in Texas.

I love a linear parkway that stretches alongside a stream. Home's is twisty and ephemeral, the Salado finding its way over new world limestone through scrub mesquite and cedar elms; live-oak branches reaching toward each other over the path, ghostly persimmons staining the ground with more berries than the jays consume.

The Arno seems sedate, arched by graceful bridges and girded by stone-work (though some high-watermarks from past deluges can be seen), strolling downstream accompanied by this tunnel of green shade, il Parco.

But my stride along this Sunday corridor feels the same, if measured in meters, not feet; kinks in knee and hip still need to find release in distance, old rituals kept with awkward reverence, like stepping into the church of another faith, watching the locals for cues.