While walking up the hill toward Notre Dame de la Garde I took out my journal and began writing.
My pace in scaling the hill slows in tempo. I do not want to look where I am going, I only want my eyes to be on her. A golden Mary with babe stands atop a square, stone tower. The babe appears to be giving me a wave.
4 blocks from the steps below the Bascilica I can hear the faint melody of a man singing. The bell strikes once for half-ten. Fig, olive, ivy, and lavender greet me through a slow, cool breeze. I hear the sound of pigeons, a sparrow, a man driving nails with a hammer, and a jetliner overhead.
U.S. war machine, Jean d’Arc sits pointing its turret indignantly toward the tower; threatening the ghosts of its former Nazi occupants. Burnt-orange poppies line the foot path below the Basilica’s grounds. Two lovers argue while constructing their cigarettes near the entrance to an abandoned underground passage now barricaded with concrete. I never found wheat to be beautiful before. 
A grey feline stalks along the path before me. He thinks he is a red poppy. The bell strikes 11 strokes. I sit and weep a little as the moment takes me. Another church keeps later time with chimes; and still another, nearer to the sea strikes aloud.
albaniacalling 