Gordes perches on the edge of the white cliffs like a city of stories ~ tall and white and proud. Her stones glow in the glory of the afternoon sun, her face turned towards the blaze. It is the stately gaze of a warrior searching for signs of danger that might threaten a beloved land.She overlooks the intermingled fields of wine vines and olive trees, and her brow is fair and serene.
* * *
Along the road to Rousillon, a line of old trees stands at attention. They reach and arc over the highway with spreading branches, trunks thick and sturdy and fingers bared by the cold.
Looking beyond these stout trees, I see groves of smaller olive trees planted in neat rows. They are lighter in color to the harsh, hearty brown and greens of the larger highway trees and have managed to cling to their leaves despite the cold.
The slender trunks disappear into the ground, and as I lean closer I realize that each cluster of trees is not one single plant but instead a collection of a few. Their feet firmly set into the ground, they lean back as if caught in one frozen moment of a ring dance ~ four or five girls whose reckless circling has caused their hair to fly outwards and their dresses to swirl around them ~ hands clasped tightly to one another's in order to prevent them from flinging themselves to the ground.
I think of Gina. And Nayelli.
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