An Evening Walk In Asissi Poem by Al Zolynas

After dinner, I walk out of the Hotel Giotto, up
the winding street. Elsewhere, this would be called the gloaming,
the air sweet and darkening, the distant Umbrian hills
fading into mist.

From both sides of the narrow street, the medieval houses lean
toward each other like old friends hunched
over a chessboard. Countless swallows swoop and dive,
play at the edge of night
before settling down under eaves.

I walk up the cobbled street, past open
windows and doors spilling the smells of Mama’s dinner,
voices of TVs and radios, rock ‘n’ roll.
In my modest pilgrimage—that’s what it’s becoming—I know

continuing will bring me to the piazza at the top of the hill
and the church we visited earlier.
But I’ve been to enough churches today.

I’m content with this little winding street,
how it goes up and up like a vine,
through all the clinging life,
and how, in the deepening dark,
I turn and come back down.