Variations aplenty, obscuring the summits of these friable escarpments – spritely defined against the lower slopes of the untamed forests and Alpine meadows.
The lowlands preserve a partial lushness.
There are no wetlands in the valleys of occasional lakes.
Drainage contains the wayward rivers.
The Dolomite rock is stained with the freshness of youth – a young geology that converts the neurotics of space into pinnacles, needles, peaks and spires – so sure of itself.
We are free of the smothering interrogations of the heat.
The altitude assures us of moderate sweltering.
It is a young world that thrives upon this plateau of serenity – a taut and placid equilibrium that, when it wants to, becomes a pathological disturbance of maniacal thunder storms.
Snares of electric light are cast with psychotic abandon.
They vanish over the scarring peaks of the eastern ridges like an afterthought of a ritual slaughter.
The Cortina range: erratic blockades of resistance against the continental drift.
In defiance of gods, raised against titans.
Projections of fractures against the jealousy of ordinary belief systems.
They cannot match the excitement of raw Nature.
Raw Nature is erotically charged with penetrating stiffness – like some fertile upstart intent on spreading its vital seed, owning the birth of its new wonders.
We are controlled by the actions of its transference of passions that undermine the restraints of reason, fervent and enlightened.
Our intellect is infused with the madness of our naked desires made brazenly real in the shadow of Sassolungo and Catennaccio’s feast of resurrections.
The clouds oversee the tumult of landscape, with minds unravelling in thoughtful bursts.
Persistent flurries overrun by stratified coping.
Splayed edges of the west, with the promise of corruptions.
Flatlanders of the north remind us that the rain persists in distant regions.
It approaches without arriving.
Like a promise unfulfilled.