We stalled in traffic–a line of goats
tinkling their bells as they made
a relaxed gait across the narrow road.
They turned to notice us, no time to hurry.
The land held the clock and we
were only its visitants.
A few more leaning, mountain curves,
and the village appeared–
warm slate rooftops, mottled grey stones
of the houses where my grandfather was born
more than a century ago, and from his memory–
the reading lamps of the stars.