whirlwinds upending convivial tables,
I thought of a poem by Eugenio Montale,
of how whirlwinds lifted the dust of a town
to the rooftops above. That gusting felt
like a ranting demon, the sky above becoming obscured
by the commotion below. These winds reminded me
of a tale about Tycho, Danish alchemist
and reader of the heavens, guardian of a tiny island
of immense influencing, how he was receiving a visit from
James the first of England, but only after that king got entangled
in a storm of demonic proportions, and how Tycho in his fury
chased the witches from his door and blasted a Copenhagen sorceress
for her part in inducing vortices. The winds in Lucca reminded me of
Tycho but also of Montale's poem--
He that seeds the wind
will reap the whirlwind
will reap the world's wind
just as he who esteems revenge
will worship a bloated god, horrible,
insatiable.