Gray skies. Open windows. Cold.  Damp. Bath towels hanging on the drying rack in the sunroom—still limp with moisture.

Rolling thunder. Distant flashes of lightning. Sheets of rain pour on rooftops.  A trumpet wails, spilling its melody. Out Into the wet. All other sounds are stilled.

The rain comes down harder now, and Michael tells me it is three days after the anniversary of the flood that devastated Florence in 1966. Lucca, like a bowl, is surrounded by high walls, with ten holes drilled into the sides for egress by its inhabitants.  But the water?  Drains are everywhere, running in all directions till they meet at the narrow canal that edges the Via del Fosso (English translation—by the ditch).  The rain is so fierce I wonder how the drains can carry the water away fast enough. I know Mike will want to go check out the ditch once the deluge abates.

Where are my galoshes?

The trash we put out this morning will surely float away.

Yesterday’s hastily planned day trip to Barga is a dream.