That was a winter of last times
waking upstairs in the cold
empty house of the master
of San Beltran with its new floors
of imitation marble
its bare rooms living with echoes
though the window had been open
all night to another cold
that came down from the mountains
bringing the sound of sheep bells
from somewhere among the clouds
and before the sun was up
I would open the front door
as the fishermen my neighbors
were bringing the night catch
up the stairs to spread out
on the gray stones of the hour
then as the first rays kindled
the upper terraces
across the valley I heard
every morning the same
voice of a girl singing
her flight of notes that rose
along the tiers of stones
to touch the whole morning
with their hovering song
older than I could know