Aventine Hill


Up on the Aventine, there are less voices to be heard in this gentle wind-swept place. Yet, it is not silent. Here, next to Santa Sabina and among the orange trees I sit, dampness from the wooden bench I’m perched on seeping slowly into my clothes. The rain has passed, and the birds resume their cheerful tittering in the warm rays of the sun. I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the flapping of wings moved by the gentle breeze whispering across my bare arms. The birds themselves express their personality though sound. From the deep, harsh caw of the Hooded Crow, the almost human outbursts from the gulls, to the reedy singing from various songbirds, the high pines are alive with a symphony that any garden would be proud to house. 
Water droplets fall from the canopy, a left over from the morning’s stormy weather. I have to cover my paper so that the water does not bend and warp the fibers into something soft and malleable. A burst of wind shakes free another sun shower, peppering the gravel with a gentle pitter patter. The natural silence is interrupted by the harsh scrape of wheels over rock; a tourist with a suitcase carves a path through the gravel, filling the air with crunching. With that, human noise returns to the grove.
I notice other things now: footsteps of dogs and their owners, the cries of children to their parents. A man stands at the edge of the overlook, speaking to a crowd that is not listening in a language that they do not understand. The gentle scent of pine mingles with the sharp tang of recent rain. I lean back into the sliver of sun, eyes closed, and I smile at the slice of simple happiness I find myself drinking in. 


(Aventine Hill)

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