Looking Down from La Rocca

In the hues of something
from Picasso's Rose Period,
clay tile roofs stretch into the horizon
and fade into farms.
Contrasted against the
nickel-stained leaves of olive trees,
the town looks dyed by the sun
in the color of dryness.
Dog-eared and drowsy,
a village sits quietly in the valley,
waiting to house a fairy tale.
If this were a Disney movie,
a pink-cheeked heroine
would be singing from a window.
I want to fall asleep here,
in the smell of hot weather
and the shade of twisted tree limbs,
with the hope that slumber will
help me dream the view into immortality.