Crisp morning air, a balm to the lungs,
The Christmas market’s bustle, music to the ears.
Vendors hawk bread and sea-scented fish,
Fat wheels of cheese and fried dough stuffed with meat;
Dry sausages swing from the edges of awnings;
Sugar-crusted sweets shimmer in the sun.
The blue waters of Lago di Garda lap the pebbled shore
While green-headed mallards and white-feathered gulls
Plunge into the depths and pop back to the surface.
They gather at the dock, where between giggles
A young girl crushes bread in her hands,
Sprinkles it
Baptismal-like,
Over their heads.
Plump gray pigeons peck the sidewalk for crumbs
And there comes the Belle of the ball:
A single swan joins the bobbing ranks,
Head held high,
Hungry bead-like eyes.
In the distance, the only trace of Italian winter:
Green craggy Alps dusted with white.
