In my neighborhood I wake up from a sound sleep to moans of the old dog across 

the way, which doesn’t bother me in the least, so fully here, I can be elsewhere, 

as well. With friends writing from Tuscany, my first breath of the morning is one, 

as if from one of the Etruscan tombs Lawrence refers to, where death is mere 

continuance of ease & naturalness, & which place, perhaps, gave him the idea 

for his allegory, “The Man Who Died.” Love, too, that epigraph that used to 

appear on Sparrow pamphlets quoting, “Living, I want to depart to where I am.” 

So, Italian birds accompany the moaning dog this pre-holiday morning, & my 

sea, beckoning us, already, will surely exhibit Tarquinian tinges in the distance.