Firenze

It's not a cloister. Far from it. It's not exactly peaceful, either. The sirens are blazing me with their trademark blasts. Cars, buses, and motorcycles rumble their way by. I hear the radio static of the guy who looks like some sort of traffic controller across the road. A guy rows under the bridge in a sleek blue boat, making good time. He's already at the next bridge. I see runners and walkers. Sunday morning must be the time for exercise. I admire the two old women jogging by. They have the whole outfit, down to the last thread of spandex in those red shorts. I can spot the tourists too, made conspicuous by the hat-camera combination or the maps they clutch in their hands. I can see all down the riverbank from where I sit. The skyline slightly jagged from the rooftops of differing heights. So many windows, peeking out onto the scene before them.