*Momentary Blindness - A few Minutes on the Aventine

Our group enters the orange grove, on top of the Aventine hill, crunching gravel sounding at our feet. Leaves rustle in the breeze, and the cool temperature beneath the trees feels refreshing. A trickling fountain is not far off, the sound halting occasionally as people take a drink. Tourists stroll and murmur to each other, various languages floating in the air, sauntering over the crunching stones. The birds begin to chatter more, chirping up in the sanctuary of high branches. The wind moved the trees above in another rustle; the shade above turning to sun, filling closed eyelids with light and warming my back. Pages of my journal flop in the breeze, the lacey hem of my dress tickling my legs as it moves.

A mother walks by, rolling a baby in a stroller, the child happily singing and cooing, and the sound of the wheels fading as they continue on. Other birds join the treetop chorus, gulls and crows mixing with a passing helicopter, and traffic somewhere distant below the hill. A horn honks as the birds chatter, and though civilization is not that far off, it feels as if it is. The park is peaceful and haven-like. Sitting here on this sun-spotted bench is like a sigh of relief, a breath of fresh air.

A motorcycle roars below, and it is almost a pull back to reality. Almost. It feels like the waking moments of a dream, when you fight the morning noises to hold on to the images in your mind. The ring of bells and a gust of rushing wind pushes through the park, the grit of dust flying up past our feet, and when the short burst calms, peace settles once more.