Rovere

The quercus pubescens. Called rOW-veray here. Caught my eye as I was cutting back the now dampened stubbly summer growth under our few mature olive trees between the showers. More rain coming, fog rising out of the valley, walnut trees dripping and shedding their bigger fruits. Still some bloody horseflies to contend with. A lone hobby way up in the rain. Calling and calling. The crickets churr on. The hunting dogs barking away in the milky dark know there time has come. A stormy night rolling in. Flickers of lightning. The smell of wild mint in the damp air. A lorry climbs the grade to the Consuma.

The centre left held on in the Tuscan regional elections. Salvini pushed back. Repubblica declaring a victory for a measured response to the pressing questions the pandemic has raised. A respite or a turning point? To early to tell but the worst has been averted. That’s seems enough for now.

Bought thirty masks and twenty litres of wine. Because you never know.