This place

What little I know
I know here:
Where the horseflies wait
To pounce in August;
Which olive tree overgrows its stays;
The place I’ve picked the most stone
From the hoe’s faltering step;
The damps where the creeping buttercup
Overthrows all and then too is overthrown;
The walnut that furnishes the biggest fruit;
The month for cinghiale to root up the big field;
The fox that nightly finds a new way in
To dig it’s cones for worms and ankles;
The grind and whitter of machinery about to break;
The next terrace about to burst or fall;
A forgotten wood pile;
The lie of whip snakes;
The probability of scorpion;
The time to move in from the mosquitoes and the flying ants;
The time to call it quits as the bats come in;
The stifling summer nights and the white noise of the fan;
Orion in winter moving from east to west;
Tawny owl, buzzard, the far nightingales,
Hoopoe and swift, the bee-eaters
Storks thousand of feet overhead flying south;
The silence and disorientation of autumn forests;
The silent stranger emerging out of nowhere with his mushroom sack or plastic bag;
The distant shots;
The eternal dogs barking;
The roar of the torrent after rain;
The weight of midsummer heat bearing down;
The remorseless sun;
The wolves unseen;
The sanctity of cold water
And cold white wine.