in the Tuscan hills just outside the village of Lazzarini Boscarino, a tawny tapestry of wheat fields rolling from the horizon. The foothills have settled into the quiet sepia colors of an old photograph. Chestnuts, mushrooms, and grapes ripen wordlessly all around. Birdsong visible in the air. The old farmer drags rough fingers down the length of his great white beard. He speaks the language of this land. Morning mist lifting from the backs of his horses is subtle poetry. Cypress trees flank his house, propped-up quills awaiting an artist. Chickens confetti the garden, while three Jack
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