Frank Corcoran

That tree-riding snake I wrote recently enough about has now ( I do hope – for it and me ) entererd its winter langour. The walnut-hamstering brown squirrel was not seen since ; our wind, this bone -cutting tramontana, whistles its Lazio Caoine for this good year, all nibs hung up to dry, like the fishermen´s nets at the lake shore in Marta. There´ll be no boat going out to our islands this wintry November. No place on troubled , post-volcanic waters. Cross the mighty Alps ( how did Hannibal bring along enough hay for his elephants , enough supplies of matches and vinegar to fire – split Alpine pass rocks, I do wonder as I blow on my fingers ) . Move on up. Bring one nib along. Music note-paper. On the off chance that.. I never know how the wind will change its icy tune.