Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

I can't believe we are home again. Time moves so quickly when you are traveling. Deb called me on Saturday saying how much she missed everyone already. It is difficult to come down from that cloud we were perched upon. I still find myself being a bit more observant, even in the village. What I find there isn't quite as inspiring but it is home. Since I can not let go of this trip, however, I am thinking that we will need to have a little reunion luncheon to share pics and stories. On that note, I have posted most of my photos on Flickr, which you can access on this page. You can easily download the photos that you want. Feel free to comment as well. Keep in touch, friends. I will continue to blog memeories form the trip and would like to welcome you to do so. I will add you to the privileges if you so wish.
Love to all.

PS- Here is a poem that my aunt, Nan, sent along for us which is fun and relevent. She and I are great fans of bats though.

BAT -- D.H. Lawrence


At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise . . .

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding . . .

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against the stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno . . .

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop . . .
A twitch, a twitter, and elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows give way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio . . .
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;

Wings like bits of umbrella.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!

In China the bat is the symbol of happiness.

Not for me.