In the middle, high on hill built from dirt supposedly from soldier's helmets, the clock strikes one.
There's a porticoed walkway up to the museum. It has a temporary ceiling of paintings made from trashed plastic. Reuse bobbing in the breeze. An archway built by Palladio frames a gnarled tree trunk with drape-like limbs. Like a dancer frozen in a twirl.
The streets of Udine. There's something about them that I like -- wide with secrets but open to visitors. Come peruse, they say. We won't make it easy, but we won't make it too difficult either.
We've already got it made.