The house is nested in a recess in the ground between the trees. Where the mountain begins. It looks out to the landscape. To the sky. That is deeply blue in these warm days. Although I have seen it low and violent. To the edge of the mountains on which the horizon rests. To the trees' roots and trunks. To the hedges. To the rocks. To the broken stones. To the hawks. To the bluebells. To the grapes.
There is a stone wall like a piece of writing. White plaster and concrete grafts. Iron and travertine registers. The catalogue of matter. A connection with the profile of landscape. Finally, it narrates the subtle pink morning light.
There is a raft raised above the ground. And a motionless journey.
