Perhaps this book on surrender—and—catch begins thus (or even: thus begins). After this walk. After this — so it might seem — initiatory walk. For it is to walk, between the stones and the walls between which the Walking goes, to communicate with the gates and the houses, the ochre paint, or the outrageous red, on the walls around the olive gardens, to greet the forbidding fort, whose walls preclude the view of our cupola, our campanile, our civic tower. And the cypresses: black brush slips in the towering sky — for the weather is not good. The olive trees shimmer, shivering in their own mean color of graygreen against the dark-gray lumpiness of a sky. And yet: nothing can happen because one returns home, out of the wind that makes itself known as possibly not joking, and there it is still and warming, and soon expectant. Expectant? These words. I can wait a while.