A slow atlas of the places that stayed with us.

in Puglia's Itria Valley, southeast of Bari

— a town built to come apart, and never did.

on the Coral Riviera, in northwest Sardinia

— the walls go gold when the sea takes the sun.

in the Dolomites, under the Sassolungo

— the green that runs all the way to the rock.

on the Amalfi Coast, at the top of the steps

— the gold at the top of the climb.

on the cliffs above Amalfi, south of Naples

— — the yellow that hangs in the shade above the sea.

in Aosta, the Roman town under the Alps

— — still the way in, two thousand years on.

running south out of Rome

— the road that outlived the empire that built it.

on the Friulian plain, near the head of the Adriatic

— — the floor outlived the city.

just east of Amalfi, where the Dragone reaches the sea

— — the sea, waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

in the Val d'Orcia, south of Siena

— — the square that has always been water.

in the Langhe hills, south of Alba

— the fog the grape was named for.

in Ravenna, near the Adriatic

— a green meadow that has not faded in fifteen hundred years.

on the western edge of Assisi, above the Umbrian plain

— the hill they renamed when the saint came home.

in Rome, where the Appian Way begins

— the roof is gone, and the room still towers.

on the southwestern coast of Italy, between Vesuvius and Capri

— a coastline that lives under a volcano.

where Lake Como forks into two arms

— — evening, and the lake goes quiet on both sides.

above the Lombard plain, an hour from Milan

— — the hundred strokes that still close the gates at ten.

below the cliffs of Anacapri, on Capri's north shore

— the light comes up through the water, not down.

in Florence, up the hill behind the Palazzo Pitti

— — the hill the Medici shaped into rooms.

in the old red city of Emilia-Romagna

— — the warm red shade the city walks under.

in the upper Valtellina, below the Stelvio Pass

— — warm water under a town of cold stone.

in the upper Valtellina, below the Stelvio Pass

— — the hour the snow turns blue under the bell tower.

in Venice, between the palace and the prison

— the last of the daylight, through a narrow stone window.

north of Venice, across the lagoon

— the colour the fog could not take.

on the hill above Cagliari, in southern Sardinia

— the high town the light leaves last.

on the eastern coast of Sardinia

— — a cove the landslide left.

in old Naples, off Spaccanapoli

— a cloth that forgot it was stone.

off the southeast cliffs of Capri, in the Bay of Naples

— three towers the sea left standing.

in southern Umbria, above Terni

— — a river the Romans taught to fall.

above the plains of Puglia, in southern Italy

— — a crown set down on a bare hill, and left.

on the Naples waterfront, in sight of Vesuvius

— a yellow fortress the bay keeps.

above Lake Albano, in the hills southeast of Rome

— — the cool the city climbs the hill to find.

on the Naples waterfront, between the port and Piazza Municipio

— — the white arch the dark towers hold.

on the Tiber's right bank, just below the Vatican

— the angel that sheathed its sword over the city.

in the Lucanian Dolomites of southern Italy

— a village the rock made room for.

on the north coast of Sicily, under the headland

— the headland gone gold above the roofs, just before dark.

in the Aosta Valley, at the foot of the Matterhorn

— the horn that closes the valley.

in the hills between Florence and Siena

— the gold the cypress keeps after the light goes.

above the Tyrrhenian, in southern Basilicata

— the figure that turns from the sea.

five towers above Cortina

— limestone on fire, just before the sun lets go.

above Cortina, in the Dolomites

— — stone the snow can't put out.

high in the Dolomites, west of Cortina

— the long gold a summer dusk leaves on pale stone.

above the Lazio badlands, north of Rome

— the town the valley is slowly taking back.

in Rome, where the Forum ends

— the ring the centuries kept half of.

in the lagoons of the Po Delta, south of Venice

— — the colour the lagoon keeps at dusk.

on the Adriatic coast, south of Ancona

— white cliff, green water, no road down.

on a headland above the Ligurian Sea, the middle of the five villages

— — the village the sea never climbed to.

high in the Dolomites, under the Tofane

— — the hour the pale rock turns to rose.

on the left bank of the Po, between Milan and Mantua

— the brick city where the violin was born.

in the clay hills south of Siena

— the bare hills the sea left behind.

on the lagoon at the south end of St. Mark's Square

— — pink marble lace above the water.

high in the Alps of northeast Italy

— — the rose the snow keeps after the sun is gone.

in old Mantua, south of Lake Garda

— — a city behind one door.

high above Urbino, in Italy's Marche

— two towers, and the valley falling away behind them.

above Trapani, on the western tip of Sicily

— the morning the cloud climbs the mountain.

in the walled center of Ferrara, north of Bologna

— red brick standing in the water it kept.

above old Florence, between the Arno and the hills

— — the dome the light keeps coming back to.

in San Polo, a few bridges west of the Rialto

— the gold at the end of the long brick dark.

in central Italy, west of Ancona

— the cathedral the water left behind.

in Naples, across from the San Carlo opera house

— where the afternoon comes down through the glass.

in Milan, between the Duomo and La Scala

— the light a glass roof leaves on marble.

in the Vatican Palace, on the way to the Sistine Chapel

— a country painted along its own walls.

the spur of the Italian boot, on the Adriatic

— white stone, and the blue it falls into.

on Italy's Ligurian coast, west of the Cinque Terre

— — the lantern still burning at the harbour mouth.

in Abruzzo, the roof of the Apennines

— the last snow the south keeps.

the long S through Venice

— — a street the water made.

on the coastal plain south of Salerno

— the gold a Greek temple keeps for evening.

on the slope of Monte Ingino, in Umbria

— — the winter the whole mountain turns to light.

outside Tivoli, an hour east of Rome

— — what an emperor built after he had seen the world.

below Vesuvius, on the Bay of Naples

— where the wood should be ash, and isn't.

on a hilltop above the Adriatic, south of Ancona

— — a small house under a great dome.

in the Borromean Gulf, off Stresa

— where bare rock was taught to bloom.

in old Verona, off Piazza delle Erbe

— the balcony the letters keep finding.

in the strait between Sardinia and Corsica

— wind-worked granite, and the sea holding every blue at once.

in Milan, a block from the Duomo

— six tiers of gold, holding their breath.

South Tyrol, twilight

— the eight minutes after the sun is gone.

high in the Dolomites of South Tyrol

— — green water, still enough to hold the mountain.

below the Three Peaks

— mountains, holding their breath.

high in the Dolomites

— the blue the storm leaves behind.

high in South Tyrol, near the Austrian border

— the eight minutes after the sun is gone.

deep in South Tyrol's Antholz Valley

— the colour the cold leaves behind.

in Lombardy's Valle Sabbia, west of Lake Garda

— a deep blue the famous lakes forgot.

between Como and Maggiore, on the Italian shore

— the still, dark water the mountains lean over.

high in the Dolomites, below the Tre Cime

— the morning the mountains lie still on the water.

in the Dolomites, on the road to the Tre Cime

— — the mirror the cold lays flat.

in Piedmont, just west of Lake Maggiore

— — the small lake the painters kept to themselves.

high in the Dolomites, above Cortina

— where the blue waits out the winter.

high in the Dolomites, above Cortina d'Ampezzo

— — a turquoise the snow gives back in July.

west of Perugia, low among the Umbrian hills

— — the flat silver the wind hasn't found yet.

south of Alba, in the long hills of Piedmont

— the rows the fog comes through.

in the Square of Miracles, in Tuscany

— a fall that never finishes.

in the old centre of Lecce, in Italy's heel

— — honey stone, holding the light long after dark.

high in the Alps, a pass from the Swiss border

— the few green weeks between two long winters.

high in upper Valtellina, near the Swiss border

— the blue the cold leaves on the snow.

in the Brenta Dolomites of Trentino, in northern Italy

— — the floodlit slope, the rest of the valley dark.

on the Ligurian coast, in the Cinque Terre

— — the village the sun keeps last.

south of Grosseto, the last wild coast in Tuscany

— salt, pine, and a tower over an empty sea.

in Florence, a block north of the Basilica di San Lorenzo

— the morning a city wakes for bread.

in Milan, southwest of the Duomo

— — the water Milan kept when it covered the rest.

on the Po plain, between Bologna and Parma

— Genesis, cut in marble that has gone the colour of honey.

rising over the rooftops of Turin

— — the spire that wouldn't stop rising.

in the hills above Palermo, Sicily

— where the walls keep the light.

above the Val d'Orcia, south of Siena

— — where Siena went on, after Siena fell.

on its hill above Cassino, southeast of Rome

— raised again, exactly where it fell.

on Lake Iseo, between Bergamo and Brescia

— the slow walk to where the lake looks small.

high on a ridge, south of Siena

— — a hill the colour of the wine it makes.

in the Tuscan hills between Siena and Florence

— a stone crown still holding the hill.

the northernmost of the Cinque Terre, on the Ligurian coast

— where a hard coast finally softens into sand.

above Catania, on the east coast of Sicily

— — a mountain still writing itself.

on the Bay of Naples, east of the city

— a fire the bay has learned to live beside.

in the Venetian Lagoon, north of Venice

— the colour fire leaves in glass.

in southeastern Sicily, south of Syracuse

— the hour the stone turns gold.

the island heart of Syracuse, on Sicily's southeast coast

— fresh water that rises at the edge of the sea.

on the tufa cliffs of southern Umbria

— the gold the evening finds in the stone.

downriver from Rome, where the Tiber meets the sea

— — the harbour the river left behind.

above the olive plain in Puglia, the heel of Italy

— — a white town above an old sea of olives.

at the eastern tip of Italy's heel, on the Adriatic

— the tree that grew across the whole floor.

above the Roman Forum, in the centre of Rome

— — the orange light on imperial brick.

southwest of Turin, in the old hunting woods

— — the bronze stag still watching the woods.

in old Palermo, on Sicily's north coast

— a cathedral the centuries kept rebuilding.

in Vicenza, between Verona and Venice

— green copper riding above the white arches.

in Parma's cathedral square, west of Bologna

— — pink stone, holding the late light.

between two valleys, in summer

— the week the meadow turned pink.

high in the Dolomites, between the Sella massif and the Sassolungo

— — the rose the rocks keep, then the blue.

high in the Dolomites, on the saddle below the Sassolungo

— the green the snow gives back, between two walls of stone.

on a hilltop in Umbria, central Italy

— the hour the whole town walks the same street.

atop the Capitoline Hill, above the Roman Forum

— the star drawn in stone, laid four centuries late.

in old Siena, where three hills meet

— a shell of warm brick, tilted toward the tower.

just inside Rome's old north gate, below the Pincio

— where the road from the north first becomes Rome.

in the old centre of Florence, in front of the Palazzo Vecchio

— the colour bronze gets when it stays outside.

Arezzo's sloping square, in eastern Tuscany

— — the square that leans into the late light.

in Rome's centro storico, just west of the Pantheon

— — the fountains running where the runners ran.

at the centre of Rome, below the Capitoline Hill

— the white marble the evening turns to gold.

above the Arno, looking back at the duomo

— the hour Florence turns the colour of its rooftops.

on a ridge above the Val d'Orcia, in southern Tuscany

— a whole town, drawn once and built at once.

on the field at Pisa, beside the leaning tower

— a single note the dome keeps for ten seconds.

in Florence, across the Arno from the Uffizi

— the hour the stone goes amber.

from the Alps to the Adriatic

— the slow water that made the plain.

on Puglia's Adriatic cliffs, south of Bari

— — white houses at the exact edge of the blue.

the southern Apennines, where Basilicata meets Calabria

— — a pine that has held the ridge for twelve hundred years.

below Vesuvius, on the Bay of Naples

— still open to the sky, still facing the mountain.

in the hills of Umbria, above the Tessino gorge

— the green falls away, and the stone keeps crossing.

across the Arno, in old Florence

— the river under a street of gold.

on the northeast coast of Sardinia

— — a coast that named a colour.

on the Ligurian coast, east of Genoa

— — a half-ring of painted houses around water holding still.

on the Ligurian coast, just south of the Cinque Terre

— — the last stone the light leaves before the open sea.

on the Amalfi Coast, south of Naples

— a cliff the colour of fruit, just before dusk.

on the Amalfi Coast, between Positano and Amalfi

— — where the coast holds the last of the sun.

on the floor of Val di Fiemme, under the Latemar

— — the held breath at the top of the in-run.

in the Val di Fiemme, under the Latemar

— — the tower waiting on November.

on the toe of Italy, across the strait from Sicily

— where Italy stops to watch Sicily.

across the Grand Canal, in old Venice

— one white arch, and the whole canal beneath it.

on the cliffs of the Cinque Terre

— houses painted to be found from the sea.

high in Abruzzo's Gran Sasso, above the Navelli plain

— stone the evening light won't let go of.

just west of the Colosseum, in old Rome

— the floor of an empire, open to the sky.

on Piazza Castello, in the old centre of Turin

— the gilded rooms a kingdom left behind.

above the Susa Valley, west of Turin

— — a thousand years of stone, above the valley fog.

above the Aniene, east of Rome

— a monastery the cliff agreed to hold.

above the Val d'Elsa, between Florence and Siena

— the towers that outlived their century.

on its own island across the basin from Piazza San Marco

— the morning catches the white before St. Mark's.

in the Gargano of northern Puglia

— a still hill town the world keeps coming to.

on the hill above the Arno in Florence

— the chant rising as Florence goes dark.

east of the Duomo, near the Arno

— where Galileo lies beside Michelangelo.

at the mouth of the Grand Canal, across from San Marco

— a vow the city kept in white stone.

on the Esquiline Hill, above Roma Termini

— a Roman August that remembers snow.

in the south of Italy, an hour from the Adriatic

— a hillside that turns to lamplight.

in southern Tuscany, in the Maremma hills below the village

— — warm water on white stone, all winter.

on Sicily's northwest coast, where the Zingaro begins

— — two stones the bay still keeps.

in Padua, half an hour west of Venice

— a chapel where the sky is the ceiling.

high in the Dolomites, above Val Gardena

— — the meadow that ends at a wall of stone.

in central Milan, between the Duomo and Parco Sempione

— — the red brick the dukes left standing.

in Italy

on a thin peninsula in southern Lake Garda

— a town the lake holds on three sides.

inside the Vatican walls, behind St. Peter's

— — the inch between two fingers.

across the Bay of Naples from Vesuvius

— a town of lemons above a bay that holds Vesuvius.

through the old centre of Naples

— laundry, stone, and the long shade.

in Rome, above Piazza di Spagna

— — the morning the azaleas come back.

on the Caelian Hill in Rome

— — the first of all the churches, still Rome's cathedral.

at the lagoon's edge in Venice

— the square the tide turns to mirror.

in Vatican City, across the Tiber from old Rome

— — travertine holding the last of the light.

across the Tiber from old Rome, inside Vatican City

— the stone arms held open for four centuries.

in Venice, at the head of Piazza San Marco

— the gold the lagoon-light keeps finding.

in the Ortler Alps of northern Italy, near the Swiss border

— — forty-eight turns into the thinning air.

in the Ortler Alps of northern Italy, near the Swiss border

— — the road the snow takes back.

in the Aeolians, north of Sicily

— the fire that keeps its own time.

in the Marmilla hills of southern Sardinia

— — stone that stood when the world was still bronze.

in the Abruzzo, between the Maiella and Morrone

— — the morning the veil falls.

on Monte Tauro, above the Ionian Sea

— — the stage opens onto a volcano.

in old Rimini, two streets north of the Arch of Augustus

— where a Renaissance held its breath.

in the Val di Fiemme, on the valley floor below Tesero

— — the green the snow waits to find.

in the Val di Fiemme, under the Latemar

— — the long blue between two breaths.

north of Venice, across the lagoon

— the gold the city left behind.

in the old Imperial Forums of Rome

— — a story carved in marble, still climbing.

on the slope of the Quirinal, above the Imperial Forums

— the brick the afternoon settles into.

high above Misurina, in the eastern Dolomites

— three towers cut from the same sky.

in central Rome, a short walk east of the Pantheon

— the corner where the city opens into water.

in the Veneto, half an hour north of Venice

— — green water still turning the medieval wheels.

on Calabria's Tyrrhenian coast

— a church on a rock, a town on a cliff.

south of Livorno, the long line to Bolgheri

— — five kilometres of cypresses, perfectly straight.

in the old centre of Bologna, where the porticoes start

— the lean the city kept upright.

in Florence, between the Palazzo Vecchio and the Arno

— — the offices Florence kept for its paintings.

south of Siena, in southern Tuscany

— — the light the Sienese painters worked from.

north of Trento, in the Dolomites

— — a long white track through the violin forest.

north of Trento, in the Dolomites

— — a summer in the forest the violins came from.

above Madonna di Campiglio

— a cathedral of moss and falling water.

in the Brenta Dolomites, below Madonna di Campiglio

— the meltwater the rock kept all winter.

on a ridge above Agrigento, in southern Sicily

— — stone the wind has been polishing for 2,500 years.

behind St. Peter's, on Vatican Hill

— half the city, kept for walking.

in the east of Venice, past the Riva degli Schiavoni

— a brick city Venice keeps to herself.

in Cannaregio, north of the Grand Canal

— the small square the world borrowed a word from.

on the Ligurian coast, between Monterosso and Corniglia

— the colour the sea has been trying to fade.

in old Verona, west of Venice

— pink stone the night fills with song.

above the Spanish Steps, on the Pincian Hill

— — the hour the domes go gold.

above Ravello, on the Amalfi Coast

— marble busts, and the sea behind them.

above Tivoli, an hour east of Rome

— the sound of water arranged like a garden.

on a wooded peninsula of Lake Como

— a loggia alone above the water.

at the edge of Pompeii, under Vesuvius

— the red the ash kept whole.

high in the Tuscan hills above the Cecina valley

— the way light walks through stone.

in Tuscany, just inland from Pisa

— the wall the war never came to.

on the south side of Venice, facing Giudecca

— — the side of Venice that keeps the afternoon.

on the Alabaster Coast of Normandy

— the chalk the Channel left standing.

high above Chamonix, in the Mont Blanc massif

— — twenty minutes from the meadow to the snow.

above the Tarn, an hour northeast of Toulouse

— — a fortress built around a sky.

between the Vosges and the Rhine

— — rows of gold the rain hasn't reached.

in Picardy, north of Paris

— a forest of stone, lit from above.

at the north end of Lake Annecy, in the French Alps

— the colour the river carries from the lake.

on the Côte d'Azur, between Cannes and Nice

— — the wall the sea keeps polishing.

at the head of the Champs-Élysées

— a flame that hasn't gone out since 1923.

in Arles, where the Rhône splits for the Camargue

— an oval the town never stopped using.

on a hill north of Aix-en-Provence

— the light he built a room to hold.

deep beneath the Causse Méjean, in the south of France

— the cathedral the water grew in the dark.

in the Marne valley, east of Paris

— — a quiet mile, the chalk running cold beneath it.

between the Arc de Triomphe and the Bois de Boulogne

— the wide quiet under the chestnuts.

just inland from the Normandy beaches

— rows of white, kept by Normandy grass.

an hour north of Paris, in Picardy

— — light climbing past where stone should stop.

off the south coast of Brittany

— — the white the Atlantic leaves between the towers.

in the Loire Valley, between Orléans and Tours

— — a spiral the king signed in salamanders.

on the western edge of Paris

— the long afternoon between two islands.

on the north slope of the Luberon, in central Provence

— — stone the colour of late afternoon.

below Beaune, where the limestone slope tips east

— — the gold the September sun leaves in the rows.

south of Dijon, on the Côte d'Or

— — the pink the dawn leaves on the rows.

on the Left Bank of Paris, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés

— the room the twentieth century thought out loud in.

on a small island in the Gulf of Morbihan, off the Brittany coast

— — what someone carved before the sea came up.

south of Marseille, in the Calanques

— the village the road forgets in summer.

in the Rhône delta, south of Arles

— the rose the salt pans hold in August.

in northeastern Paris, between Bastille and La Villette

— iron arches over water that takes its time.

in Brittany, across the bay from Mont-Saint-Michel

— — the field the tide gives back twice a day.

the long curve of the bay in Cannes

— two weeks of cinema, fifty of palms.

the southern point of the Crozon peninsula, in Brittany

— the heather lying down before the Atlantic.

on the Bassin d'Arcachon, across the water from the Dune du Pilat

— a dozen oysters and the tide coming in.

in the Languedoc, above the Aude

— ramparts holding the last of the light.

above the bay of Quiberon, on the south coast of Brittany

— rows the heath has been holding since before writing.

east of Marseille, at the foot of Cap Canaille

— the hour the cliff turns the colour of brick.

in the Marais, east of Les Halles

— — the building that wears its bones on the outside.

in the southern Massif Central, north of Montpellier

— the dark Europe still keeps.

in the chalk hills between Reims and Épernay

— — the gold the harvest leaves behind.

in Paris, between the Tuileries and the arch

— — the avenue the city walks before dark.

an hour southwest of Paris, on the Beauce

— — two towers, three centuries apart.

in the Loire Valley, east of Tours

— — white stone above the slow Loire.

on an island in the Indre, southwest of Tours

— the house the Indre paints back.

in the Loire valley, above the Indre

— — the white castle a fairy tale grew around.

above the Dordogne, in the Périgord Noir

— the cliff that decided to be a castle.

in the Loire Valley, south of Angers

— — pale stone, dark slate, above the vines of Anjou.

above the Dordogne in the Périgord Noir

— the gold the stone keeps after the sun is gone.

in the Loire Valley, east of Blois

— a forest with a skyline above it.

north of Paris, where the forest opens onto water

— the kind of stillness that doubles a building.

on the Cher, in the Loire Valley

— the gallery the river runs beneath.

in the Loire Valley, southeast of Blois

— — a white that the rain keeps polishing.

in the Loire valley, above the Vienne

— the long white wall above a slow river.

on the right bank of the Loire, west of Tours

— — a town gate on one side, a garden on the other.

on the Loire, where the Vienne joins it

— — white stone set into the river.

above the Loire, in the wine country of Anjou

— the castle the Limbourgs painted in September.

in Amboise, on the Loire

— — the last room the Mona Lisa knew.

high in the French Pyrenees, against the Spanish border

— — the colosseum the glaciers left behind.

high in the French Pyrenees, above Gavarnie

— the meadow the mountains lean over.

on the Garonne, north of central Bordeaux

— — the curve a glass remembers.

in Alsace, where the Lauch slows through Colmar

— houses leaning over water that holds them twice.

in southern France, on the road to Santiago

— — the light walked toward for a thousand years.

high above the Cérou valley, in the Tarn

— a ridge the morning fog rises to meet.

the long chalk slope south of Épernay

— — the morning light the chalk holds onto.

in Aix-en-Provence, half an hour north of Marseille

— the long shade between four fountains.

on the Norman coast, two hours from Paris

— the colour the channel doesn't have.

high above the Dordogne, in the Périgord Noir

— — the long curve of the river below.

on the Atlantic, west of Bordeaux

— where the sand is taller than the pines.

in Alsace, south of Colmar

— — streets that curl back to where they began.

on the Champ de Mars, on the left bank of the Seine

— iron the evening turns to gold.

above the Champ-de-Mars, on the Left Bank

— the lattice the sky shows through.

above the Champ de Mars, on the Seine's left bank

— the lattice the evening hangs from.

on the Alabaster Coast of Normandy

— the door the cliff opens for the sea.

on the Alabaster Coast, the eastern arch above Étretat

— — the chapel above, the arch below, the sea through it.

above the Côte d'Azur, between Nice and Monaco

— — the colour the Mediterranean leaves on stone.

in Brittany, west of Rennes

— the wood the stories kept coming back to.

in Paris, just north of the Palais Garnier

— a sky built in coloured glass.

at the eastern face of the palace, southwest of Paris

— the gold the morning finds first.

at the foot of the Alpilles, just south of Saint-Rémy

— what the centuries did not bury.

in the Luberon, above the lavender abbey

— — honey stone, stacked into the cliff.

in the Causses of Quercy, above the Dordogne valley

— — the circle of green sky, seen from far below.

on the south coast of Brittany

— — granite split four ways, lying still.

in the king's palace, west of Paris

— — the afternoon sun, returned seventeen times by glass.

at the north edge of the Versailles gardens, past the Petit Trianon

— — a village painted to look already old.

above the Alsace plain, in the Vosges

— — pink sandstone, holding the long horizon.

on a chalk hillside above the Marne, north of Épernay

— — vines below, the small church above.

in Beaune, the wine capital of Burgundy

— — a roof patterned like a page from a book of hours.

on the Left Bank, east of the Eiffel Tower

— the gold the dusk leaves on Paris.

in the Seine, between the Left and Right Banks of Paris

— — the island the bells came back to.

on a low island off La Rochelle

— — the geometry the sea leaves behind.

where the land runs out, west of Brittany

— — the last lit stone before the open Atlantic.

in the middle of the Seine, just east of Notre-Dame

— — the light the Seine takes home each evening.

between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde

— the long view, kept since Le Nôtre.

in upper Alsace, where the vineyards climb the Vosges

— the river the rampart still watches.

on the Dordogne, between Beynac and Domme

— the village the cliff keeps warm.

in the French Alps, an hour south of Geneva

— the green a lake turns when it's been left alone.

in the Dordogne, southwestern France

— the dark that held its colour for seventeen thousand years.

on the Norman coast, where the Bresle meets the Channel

— the chalk the Channel hasn't finished.

high in the Alpilles, between Avignon and Arles

— the village the limestone built and the wind kept.

along the Loire west of Orléans

— — the cool light the river leaves on the vines.

in the French Pyrenees, on a bend of the Gave de Pau

— — a rock, a spring, and the world walks to it.

in Provence, at the foot of the Luberon

— — the gold the limestone holds until evening.

on the east face of the Louvre, facing Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois

— — the row the morning light belongs to.

in the courtyard of the Louvre, on the right bank of the Seine

— — a triangle of glass in a square of stone.

at the center of Place de la Concorde, between the Tuileries and the Champs-Élysées

— older than the city it stands in.

in the centre of Nîmes, half an hour west of Avignon

— the temple the centuries left alone.

on the rue des Marchands, in old-town Colmar

— a corner that turned Colmar toward the Renaissance.

behind a carriage door in the Paris Marais

— — the green a carriage door keeps quiet.

at the foot of the Pyrenees, in Lourdes

— a wall a million hands have touched.

in the Luxembourg Garden, on the Left Bank

— — the long green hour, held by plane trees.

in the Haute-Savoie, below Mont Blanc

— the bell over a square the snow holds.

high in the Luberon, on a long limestone spur

— — the village the ridge slowly became.

on the French Riviera, the last town before Italy

— — the colour Liguria left behind.

above Chamonix, in the Mont Blanc massif

— — winter, on its way down.

in the Maritime Alps, north of Nice

— the dark the coast forgot.

in a Norman village west of Paris, where the Epte meets the Seine

— the pink the painter kept for himself.

in Normandy, an hour northwest of Paris

— still water under a green wooden bridge.

above Chamonix, where France meets Italy

— — the white the summer cannot melt.

on a tidal island off the Normandy coast, near the Brittany border

— the abbey that becomes an island twice a day.

on a tidal island where Normandy meets Brittany

— a courtyard suspended between the sea and the sky.

where Normandy meets Brittany

— the hour the water gives back the island.

high above the Left Bank rooftops

— the city flat as a folded map.

on the Left Bank, fifty-nine floors up

— — the half-hour the limestone turns gold.

at the mouth of Marseille's old port

— a cube wearing the shadow of its own lace.

above Omaha Beach, on the bluff at Colleville-sur-Mer

— — the white the bluff has held since June.

high above Marseille's old port

— the gold that watches for the boats coming home.

on the Île de la Cité, in the Seine

— stone built to carry the colour.

on the parvis, on the Île de la Cité

— — the wall the city measures from.

in the Rhône valley, north of Avignon

— — the wall the centuries forgot to bring down.

in old Avignon, above the Rhône

— — a fortress with a court inside.

in Paris, at the head of Avenue de l'Opéra

— the gold of Apollo, just before the curtain.

on the Place de l'Opéra, in central Paris

— a staircase built to be a room.

on the hill above the Sorbonne, in the Latin Quarter

— where the country keeps its great names.

in the Dordogne, southwest France

— the sound of walnuts hitting the grass.

on the grounds of Versailles, west of Paris

— a door the queen closed behind her.

in old Strasbourg, where the Ill divides into four

— the wood leaning toward its own reflection.

on the western tip of Île de Ré, west of La Rochelle

— — a light named for the whales that came ashore.

on the far end of Ouessant, the last island before the open Atlantic

— — the lamp at the western edge of Europe.

above the Col du Tourmalet, in the French Pyrenees

— — the night sky from above the weather.

high in the French Pyrenees, above the Col du Tourmalet

— — the stars the valleys can no longer see.

facing the Garonne, in Bordeaux

— — a façade the water learns by heart.

in the Marais quarter of Paris

— — red brick the afternoon settles into.

in Montmartre, a few steps from Sacré-Cœur

— the easels going up while the city is still quiet.

at the western edge of Brittany, above the Raz de Sein

— — the granite the Atlantic has been working on.

at the western tip of Brittany, above the Iroise Sea

— — the same light, in a different stone.

across the Seine, between the Invalides and the Champs-Élysées

— gold against the river, just before dark.

in Provence, on the Rhône

— — four arches into the Rhône, then nothing.

in Annecy, where the canal opens onto the lake

— an iron arch, and the lake just beginning.

where the Hérault leaves its gorges below Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert

— — a thousand years of pilgrim feet and the same green water.

above the Gardon, in the south of France

— — two thousand years above the river.

in central Paris, at the tip of the Île de la Cité

— the bridge from which Paris first saw its river.

in the south of France, below the walled Cité

— — the slow crossing, the walls held in late gold.

in Albi, the red city on the Tarn

— the red the cathedral lays on the water.

in Nice, on the Côte d'Azur

— a blue chair, facing the long Mediterranean.

in the Alpilles, between the Rhône and the Durance

— the silver the wind keeps turning over.

across the orchards of the Valensole plateau, in upper Provence

— pink on bare wood, before the lavender ever wakes.

on the Valensole Plateau, north of Aix

— a thousand heads, all facing east.

on the Valensole plateau, above the Verdon

— — the week the heads turn east and hold.

the wild Atlantic edge of southern Brittany

— the cliffs the Atlantic is still working.

in the chalk country east of Paris

— a wall of saints, in the late light.

on the Alsace Wine Route, north of Colmar

— the village that kept all of its colours.

in the Quercy, above the Alzou canyon

— a village that climbed into the rock and stayed.

in southern France, half an hour west of Avignon

— — a ring the centuries still keep warm.

in Rouen, on the right bank of the Seine

— — the face the light keeps repainting.

on a ridge in the Luberon, east of Avignon

— — the sunset already in the cliff.

in old Rouen, between the cathedral and the old market square

— — a clock with one hand, gold above the street.

in old Dinan, the cobbled way down to the Rance

— — a lane the centuries have leaned into.

on Montmartre, the highest point in Paris

— the white the rain keeps whitening.

above a village in the foothills of the Pyrenees

— the hill that holds five centuries of light.

in the inner suburbs just north of Paris

— where the kings of France sleep in coloured light.

on the right bank of the Dordogne, east of Bordeaux

— the colour the vines turn the week before harvest.

on Brittany's Channel coast, at the mouth of the Rance

— the wall the tide comes for, twice a day.

on the north coast of Brittany, at the mouth of the Rance

— a circle of stone above the tide.

in the Alpilles, south of Avignon

— the wheat field beneath van Gogh's window.

on the Côte d'Azur, between Marseille and Cannes

— the light that pulled the painters south.

in old Honfleur, on the south bank of the Seine

— — a church built like a ship turned over.

on the Île de la Cité, in central Paris

— the room where the walls become light.

in the Périgord Noir of southwest France

— — a town the colour of late afternoon.

in Provence, on the eastern flank of Mont Ventoux

— — purple, all the way to the mountain.

in a hollow north of Gordes, in Provence

— — the wall the lavender visits every July.

in the Latin Quarter, on the left bank of the Seine

— — the small square the Sorbonne keeps for itself.

in old Strasbourg, on the Grande Île

— the pink stone keeps after the sun is down.

at the entrance to La Rochelle's old harbour, on the Atlantic coast of France

— — stone that leaned, and held the harbour.

across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower

— — the view the city built for itself.

on the Normandy coast, across the river from Deauville

— the light Boudin chased.

on the Norman coast, the western end of the D-Day shore

— the shore the world keeps walking back to.

in Normandy, on the long flat coast

— a quiet shore that still holds its morning.

at the head of the Tarentaise, near the Italian border

— — where the Isère begins.

on the plateau between the Verdon Gorge and the Durance

— the week the fields hum.

an hour southeast of Paris

— green ink laid down before Versailles.

behind the palace, twenty kilometres west of Paris

— — the king's geometry, in boxwood and water.

on the long hill above Vézelay, in northern Burgundy

— the room the noon light walks in June.

above the Tarn valley in southern France

— — the morning the road floated.

across the Seine estuary from Le Havre

— — houses that lean toward their own reflection.

on the Côte d'Azur, between Castle Hill and the sea

— — ochre walls, and the sea just past them.

where Marseille meets the Mediterranean

— the harbour the city was built around.

on the spine of Cap Ferrat, between Nice and Monaco

— a garden built like a ship's deck.

in the Loire Valley, west of Tours

— — the colour the kitchen garden makes in late June.

between Nice and Cap Ferrat, on the Côte d'Azur

— the deepwater blue the village climbs above.

in the high desert below Mount Whitney

— — a window the wind cut for the mountain.

in San Francisco Bay, just off the Embarcadero

— — a mile and a quarter of cold water, and the city right there.

out in the eastern Mojave, on old Route 66

— — the shape a fire left in the desert.

off the eastern tip of Anacapa Island, eleven miles out from Oxnard

— — a window the sea cut for itself.

in Mendocino County, along the Navarro River

— — the fog the Pacific sends up the river.

above Grand Central Market, in downtown Los Angeles

— two orange cars passing halfway up the hill.

on the California coast, between Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz

— — the winter the beach belongs to the seals.

in the Mojave foothills north of Los Angeles

— — the colour the desert keeps for two weeks each spring.

in the desert east of San Diego

— — the spring the desert pays the rain back.

in Death Valley, between Furnace Creek and Badwater Basin

— the colours the desert keeps for the late light.

in the Sierra Nevada foothills, between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe

— — brick and iron the Gold Rush built, still open.

in California's far-north redwood country, along the old US-101

— the cathedral the road runs through.

in Death Valley, the lowest ground in North America

— — the white the last sea left behind.

on a mesa above downtown San Diego

— the long arcade, the lily pond, the bells.

at the top of the California coast, near the Oregon line

— — a light the tide lets you reach.

across the bay, between San Francisco and Yerba Buena Island

— — the bay edged in light that never repeats.

south of Carmel-by-the-Sea, where the mountains meet the sea

— — the road that runs where the cliff lets it.

on the Big Sur coast, thirteen miles south of Carmel

— — a single white arch above the surf.

on the Sonoma Coast, north of the Golden Gate

— the harbor the fog never quite leaves.

high in the Bodie Hills, above Mono Lake

— — silver wood the desert is still polishing.

in Yosemite Valley, on the south wall just past Tunnel View

— — the water the wind takes sideways.

in the high country of Lassen Volcanic National Park

— — the floor of a mountain that hasn't cooled yet.

in northern California, on the edge of the Cascades

— — a wall the water comes through, not over.

on Russian Hill, looking north to Alcatraz

— — the corner where the city tips into the bay.

in the Mojave, northeast of Barstow

— — the colour the silver left behind.

an hour northwest of Sacramento, along Highway 16

— the week the valley turns to face the sun.

on Monterey Bay, southeast of Santa Cruz

— — pastel houses where the creek slips into the bay.

south of Monterey, where Ocean Avenue ends at the sand

— — the colour the cypresses hold last.

just south of Carmel-by-the-Sea, near the mouth of the river

— the sandstone the evening light finds first.

on the Monterey Peninsula, just south of Pebble Beach

— houses smaller than the stories about them.

south of Napa, where the valleys meet the bay

— — what fills the rows before the vines wake.

in southeastern San Luis Obispo County, between the Temblor and Caliente ranges

— the spring the rain remembered.

in Napa Valley, just south of Calistoga

— a castle built one stone at a time.

south of Mount Shasta, above the Sacramento River

— granite the rest of the mountain left behind.

in Yosemite Valley, across from El Capitan

— — three towers where the late light lands.

down the middle of California, between the Sierras and the Coast Ranges

— — the few weeks the valley turns pink.

in Joshua Tree, where two deserts meet.

— — light caught in a field of spines.

high on Telegraph Hill, in San Francisco

— a pale column the fog finds first.

in the Sierra foothills, north of Sonora

— the gold rush, after the noise.

south of Mammoth Lakes, in the eastern Sierra

— still water that holds the mountain twice.

in the Eastern Sierra, north of Bishop

— what cold rain left in hot ash.

on the Newport Coast, between Corona del Mar and Laguna Beach

— the long light before the cottages turn on.

above Lake George, in the eastern Sierra

— a vein of light in the granite.

high above Death Valley, on the Black Mountains rim

— the half-hour the basin holds the blue.

in the Sierra Nevada, near Mammoth Lakes

— the columns the glacier polished from above.

just below Donner Pass, west of Truckee

— — the summer lake at the foot of the hardest winter.

in the LA basin, the San Gabriels rising behind

— — the half-hour the glass turns to copper.

in Yosemite Valley, above the meadow

— the first light on three thousand feet of granite.

on the Malibu coast, west of Point Dume

— — the hour the light gets caught in the rock.

east of Tioga Pass, high above Mono Lake

— a held blue at the edge of the pass.

on the southwest shore of Lake Tahoe

— — the green the blue makes room for.

on the redwood coast, just back from Gold Bluffs Beach

— — the corridor the ferns took back.

on California's Lost Coast, fifteen miles south of Eureka

— — a painted block the fog won't age.

at the rim of the Borrego Badlands, east of San Diego

— the half-hour the badlands turn to gold.

south of Carmel, where Highway 1 turns into Big Sur

— the coast the fog keeps remembering.

in downtown San Diego, two blocks from the bay

— — the brick that kept its century.

in the Giant Forest, high in the southern Sierra

— two thousand winters in one trunk.

in the southern Sierra, above Three Rivers

— — the red bark the snow won't cover.

on the south rim of Yosemite Valley

— the pink the granite keeps after the sun is gone.

on the Mendocino coast, north of Fort Bragg

— — polished glass where the dump used to be.

on the redwood coast, north of Orick

— the morning the elk come down to the sea.

at the mouth of San Francisco Bay

— — the orange the fog never quite takes.

on the headlands, eye-level with the towers

— the orange the fog can't take.

above Los Angeles, on the south slope of Mount Hollywood

— the dome that holds two skies.

on the south rim of Yosemite Valley

— the face the day leaves last.

above the Pacific Coast Highway, halfway to Big Sur

— — the two white towers a fortune kept above the sea.

in the San Gorgonio Pass, east of Los Angeles

— twenty acres of purple, hand-cut in June.

in central Los Angeles, beneath the sign on Mount Lee

— — the names pressed into the sidewalk.

on Mount Lee, looking south over Los Angeles

— — a hand-painted billboard the city forgot to take down.

high in the Sierra, south of Lake Tahoe

— — the week the aspens take the valley.

across the bay from San Diego, on the Coronado strand

— — the white hotel the sea forgot to take.

on Big Sur, between Bixby Bridge and Point Sur

— a wind that has a name.

south of Palm Springs, at the foot of the San Jacintos

— the green the desert keeps to itself.

in the high Mojave, where two deserts meet

— a forest with the spaces left in.

in the Mojave, east of Los Angeles

— the sky burns down to silhouettes.

in the eastern Mojave, off Kelbaker Road

— — a low hum when the slope gives way.

on the crest of the Little San Bernardino Mountains, above the Coachella Valley

— — the long look, all of it at once.

near the Oregon line in California's high northeast

— — the morning the marsh takes flight.

where the redwoods meet the Pacific

— the river finally giving itself to the sea.

on the southern California coast, north of San Diego

— the green the kelp gives the water.

high in the Eastern Sierra, above Bishop

— — the week the canyon goes gold.

north of Redding, at the top of the Sacramento Valley

— the lake the four rivers became.

in California's volcanic north, where the Cascades end

— a slow fire, sleeping under snow.

on the high desert of northeast California, near the Oregon line

— — the dark you can walk into.

in the Eastern Sierra, above Rock Creek

— a row of small lakes the glacier set down.

in California's Central Valley, between Sacramento and the Delta

— a vine that has earned its century.

on the eastern face of Russian Hill, between Hyde and Leavenworth

— a hill that bent the street.

on the western edge of the Monterey Peninsula

— — the tree the wind taught how to lean.

north of Mendocino, where Highway 1 turns inland

— the coast the highway let go.

in the Sierra Nevada foothills, on the road into Yosemite

— foothill yellow, with a courthouse still keeping time.

in southern Yosemite, off the Wawona road

— — red bark, two thousand years deep.

a half mile off Pillar Point, south of San Francisco

— the cold blue wall the winter Pacific builds.

on the Big Sur coast, thirty-seven miles south of Carmel

— — a thread of water into a turquoise cove.

north of San Francisco, where Highway 1 meets the sea

— a meadow that ends in sea arches.

in Death Valley, just past Stovepipe Wells

— — what the wind leaves by morning.

west of Mammoth Mountain, in the Ansel Adams Wilderness

— — the ridge the sun saves for last.

in Tenaya Canyon, at the foot of Half Dome

— half the mountain, again, on the water.

in the Mission, where the city began

— the oldest quiet in San Francisco.

above the Santa Ynez Valley, four miles northeast of Lompoc

— the long colonnade the late sun walks through.

in the Valley of the Oaks, southwest of King City

— the bells the oaks still keep.

in the San Gabriel Valley, east of downtown Los Angeles

— bells in their wall, again.

east of Monterey Bay, on the old El Camino Real

— — the long arcade the afternoon never quite leaves.

on the old Camino Real between Los Angeles and San Diego

— the arches the earthquake left for the light.

on California's Central Coast, between San Francisco and Los Angeles

— — the first red roof in the chain.

in Oceanside, four miles in from the Pacific

— — the white wall the late sun keeps warming.

on the old Camino Real, north of Paso Robles

— the paint that stayed two hundred years.

above the city, in the foothills

— the late light on both towers at once.

in the valley south of San Francisco Bay

— what stayed when everything else burned.

north of Santa Barbara, in the Santa Ynez Valley

— — the wall the morning warms first.

in the Providence Mountains, deep in the Mojave

— — the eyes of the mountain, half open.

in California's Gold Country, on Highway 49

— the stone the fire couldn't take.

east of Yosemite, on the dry side of the Sierra

— — the towers the lake left behind.

south of Morro Bay, where the road runs out

— the gold the hills are named for.

on California's central coast, between Santa Cruz and Monterey

— — a small body asleep, anchored in the kelp.

above the Kaweah Canyon in Sequoia, on the western slope of the southern Sierra

— the last light the Sierras hold.

in northern California, in the upper Sacramento canyon

— — water arriving sideways through the moss.

at the south end of the Cascade Range, in far northern California

— — a mountain you watch arrive for an hour.

in the eastern Sierra, above the Owens Valley

— — the wall the morning finds first.

in California's gold country, east of Stockton

— — the stone the gold rush left standing.

above the vineyards north of San Francisco Bay

— — the half-hour before the valley wakes.

an hour north of San Francisco Bay, between two coast ranges

— — the hour the fog lifts off the rows.

at the western edge of Santa Cruz, where West Cliff Drive ends

— the last of three arches the sea left standing.

in the Sierra Nevada foothills, northeast of Sacramento

— the town the gold rush left whole.

above the mouth of San Diego harbour

— the light no fog could reach.

on the Tioga Road, above Tenaya Lake

— the rock that remembers the ice.

on the Monterey Peninsula, between Monterey and Pebble Beach

— a coast the fog keeps quiet most mornings.

in Pacific Grove, on the Monterey Peninsula

— a hundred thousand wings, folded into the pines.

on Steiner Street, across from Alamo Square

— the row the postcards know by heart.

in the Marina District, west of Crissy Field

— a Roman ruin built for one fair, then kept.

in the Coachella Valley, against the San Jacinto Mountains

— a low line against a high mountain.

in the oak hills of California's Central Coast, north of San Luis Obispo

— — the oaks the town is named for.

on California's Monterey Peninsula, between Carmel-by-the-Sea and Pacific Grove

— — the wind keeps the cypress that shape.

on the Big Sur coast, twenty-seven miles south of Carmel

— — the keyhole the winter sun finds.

on California's Central Coast, six miles north of San Simeon

— — the same light, every night since 1875.

on California's San Mateo coast, five miles south of Pescadero

— — named for the ship that wrecked here.

above the High Peaks of central California

— — the bird that came back from twenty-two.

in central California, in the southern Gabilan Range

— — the volcano the fault carried north.

in the Sierra foothills, on Highway 50 east of Sacramento

— — the town that outlived the rush.

on the Mendocino coast, where the San Andreas comes ashore

— — the tower the 1906 quake brought down.

at the north shoulder of the Golden Gate

— — the only lighthouse you reach by suspension bridge.

on the Mendocino headland, between Mendocino and Fort Bragg

— — the small white house keeping watch since 1909.

on the Malibu coast, where the cove drops below the bluff

— — a volcanic point above the open Pacific.

south of Carmel-by-the-Sea, where the cypress meet the granite

— — the cypress that grows only here.

on the Marin County coast, where the peninsula reaches west into the Pacific

— — the windward edge of the continent.

at the western tip of the Point Reyes peninsula, in Marin County

— — the lamp at the bottom of 308 stairs.

on the bluffs of Tomales Point, north of San Francisco

— the bugle that carries across the fog.

on a volcanic rock off Highway 1, south of Carmel

— the light kept on a rock above the swell.

on the Palos Verdes cliffs, south of Los Angeles

— the lamp the whales pass twice a year.

on a dry lake bed deep in Death Valley

— the rocks that move when no one is watching.

high in the Sierra Nevada, in Kings Canyon

— the lakes the granite holds in its hand.

in Jamestown, in the Sierra foothills

— — the steam the camera kept coming back for.

north of Barstow, in the Mojave

— — the colour the layers keep.

off Highway 14, where the Mojave climbs into the El Pasos

— — what the wind left of the cliff.

in the summer fog belt of the Northern California coast

— — the morning the tree drinks the cloud.

across the river at the western end of Capitol Mall

— — a gold lift against a slack river.

in the Colorado Desert, below sea level

— the water that came by mistake and stayed.

at the edge of Slab City, east of the Salton Sea

— a mountain one man made out of paint.

at the foot of Market Street, on the Embarcadero

— — the clock tower the bay built its mornings around.

across the bay, from the Marin Headlands

— — the city the fog finishes.

on the eastern foothills of California's San Joaquin Valley, between Visalia and Porterville

— the week the whole valley smells like orange blossom.

on a strip of beach six miles north of San Simeon, below the Piedras Blancas lighthouse

— the bulls come ashore in December.

on the Nevada shore of Lake Tahoe, four miles south of Incline Village

— — granite and water that lets the bottom show through.

on the northwest shore of Santa Cruz Island, off Ventura

— — a long blue room the ocean keeps to itself.

where Colorado Avenue runs out into the Pacific

— — a wooden pier with a Ferris wheel on its shoulder.

along Park Boulevard, deep in Joshua Tree

— the granite the rainwater taught to look back.

in California's northwest corner, just below the Oregon line

— water the colour of clean glass.

in the Santa Ynez Valley, about an hour north of Santa Barbara

— sails turning slow in the Santa Ynez wind.

north of San Francisco Bay, where the California wine country begins

— rows of vine on a slow gold afternoon.

over the Sierra Nevada crest, on California State Route 108

— the road that climbs until the air goes thin.

at the foot of State Street in Santa Barbara, California

— — where State Street ends and the channel begins.

deep in Jedediah Smith Redwoods, on California's far north coast

— — where the cathedral is older than the country.

on the Humboldt coast, a few miles north of Trinidad

— — the park that took its old name back.

at Lands End on the western edge of San Francisco

— — concrete pools the sea finally took back.

in Coloma, on the South Fork of the American River

— — the morning that rerouted the country.

deep in Redwood National Park, off Bald Hills Road

— — the fog the redwoods drink before the sun finds them.

along Tioga Road, high in the Yosemite backcountry

— — the cold blue the glacier left.

on the sandstone bluffs above La Jolla

— — a pine that grows here and one island over.

on the bluff above Trinidad Harbor, on California's north coast

— — a small light for those the sea kept.

in the Klamath Mountains, west of the Sacramento Valley

— — a range that keeps its own quiet.

in the northern Mojave Desert, on the floor of Searles Dry Lake east of Ridgecrest

— — the lake floor that stayed when the water left.

in Sequoia National Park, on the Crescent Meadow Road in the Giant Forest

— — the tree the road kept driving through.

at the east portal of the Wawona Tunnel on State Route 41, above Yosemite Valley

— — the valley the road opens onto.

in Yosemite's high country, along the upper Tuolumne River below Tioga Pass

— — the meadow the snow leaves for July.

in the Eastern Sierra below the Sawtooth Ridge, southwest of Bridgeport

— — the lake the record brown came out of.

on the western edge of Los Angeles, where the boardwalk meets the sand

— — the boardwalk where the city walks barefoot.

in Yosemite Valley, the granite stairway up the Merced River

— — the trail that walks you straight through a waterfall.

above Emerald Bay on the west shore of Lake Tahoe

— — the house with a meadow on its roof.

in the Sierra foothills, deep in Amador County's gold country

— — a Gold Rush town the highway forgot.

in South Los Angeles, on a small triangular lot east of the 110

— — a tower made of broken plates and patience.

in San Jose, in the Santa Clara Valley south of San Francisco

— — a house that kept being built.

on the north wall of Yosemite Valley, in the Sierra Nevada

— — what the snowpack does on the way down.

on the eastern wall of Death Valley, just southeast of Furnace Creek

— — the first ten minutes of the desert day.

on the floor of Kings Canyon, at the upper end of Highway 180

— — a meadow the road just barely reaches.

on the Front Range, just north of Colorado Springs

— seventeen spires, lit from within.

above Estes Park, in Rocky Mountain National Park

— — a short white drop through the pink granite.

high in the San Juans, above Silverton

— — a bay window above the last trees.

in the San Juans, between Silverton and the high desert

— the week the aspens turn the canyon gold.

just below Loveland Pass, on the Continental Divide

— — sunburn at the Beach, snow still on the boots.

ten miles south of Aspen, up the Castle Creek valley

— — the town the silver left behind.

in the Elk Range, above the town of Aspen

— the last red the range lets go.

above Creede, in the San Juans

— — the road silver carved and the aspens kept.

below the Continental Divide, west of Estes Park

— — the mountain twice, before the wind.

in Colorado's Eagle Valley, at the foot of Beaver Creek Mountain

— — the warm square the snow leaves alone.

on the Arkansas River, east of La Junta

— adobe in the long gold grass.

in the Colorado Front Range, west of Denver

— — a ram, a ledge, the whole sky.

west of Gunnison, along U.S. Highway 50

— — the last hour the water holds the sky.

in Boulder, at the foot of the Flatirons

— — the mountain at the end of the street.

in the Colorado Rockies, the Tenmile Range behind town

— a gold-rush street under the high white range.

above Telluride, at the head of the box canyon

— a long white veil at the canyon's end.

in Colorado Springs, at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain

— pink stucco against a mountain, since 1918.

downtown Denver, where 17th meets Broadway.

— eight stories of light, under one glass sky.

between Buena Vista and Salida, on the Arkansas

— — pink granite, and the river still working it.

in the Sawatch Range, west of Buena Vista

— — a horizon you can read by name.

above Ouray, in the San Juans

— — a high basin you have to earn.

deep in Colorado's Elk Range, west of Aspen

— — a thread of stone above the drop.

high in the Elk Range, south of Aspen

— the fortress the snow won't leave.

in Williams Canyon, above Manitou Springs

— a room the water built in the dark.

in the bowl beneath the east face of Longs Peak

— — the blue the cliff holds in shadow.

on the South Rim of Black Canyon, above the Gunnison

— — a chasm the sun barely reaches.

south of Colorado Springs, on the Front Range

— the granite where the city ends.

at the foot of Pikes Peak, west of Colorado Springs

— — still lit after a hundred and fifty winters.

in western Colorado, where I-70 follows the river

— — the river that wrote the canyon, still writing.

where the Front Range meets the high plains

— the pink granite the evening turns purple.

in downtown Denver, where the plains meet the Front Range

— Colorado gold on Colorado granite.

in downtown Denver, where the plains meet the Rockies

— — the gold the mountains lent the city.

down from the South San Juans into the San Luis Valley

— the long green between the spires.

in downtown Denver, the Rockies past the outfield

— — the long ball, the long view.

in Summit County, between Frisco and Breckenridge

— — the eight minutes the ridge keeps the light.

in the Sawatch Range, west of Buena Vista

— the heat the mountain keeps.

high in the Sawatch, above Buena Vista

— — the road climbs until the trees give up.

in the Elk Mountains of southwest Colorado, at the head of the Slate River

— — the road that ends in the Elk Range.

high in the Sangres, above the San Luis Valley

— — the red the dusk leaves on the stone.

high on the west flank of Pikes Peak

— — granite the rush left behind.

on the southwest flank of Pikes Peak

— — what the gold rush left to the wind.

on the back of Pikes Peak

— — what the boom left in brick, at nine thousand feet.

in the Elk Mountains, south of Aspen

— — what the mountain keeps after everyone's gone.

in the Elk Mountains, east of Marble

— — the room the river left standing.

above Moraine Park, in the Colorado Rockies

— — water held still long enough to bloom.

high in the San Juans, near the New Mexico line

— steam at ten thousand feet.

in northwest Denver, three miles west of downtown

— — the city doubled at dawn.

in Lower Downtown, a mile above the sea

— the lobby Denver shares with its trains.

in Lower Downtown Denver, at the foot of 17th Street

— — the warmth a great room keeps after dark.

high on the Rampart Range, southwest of Denver

— — a room above the trees, still watching for smoke.

under Hallett Peak, west of Estes Park

— — a blue the cold keeps for itself.

at the south end of the San Juans, where the narrow-gauge still runs

— the avenue the steam train wakes up.

in the San Juans, above the Animas

— — a column of smoke the canyon keeps.

in the valley below the Gore Range

— the green the snow turns into.

in Dinosaur National Monument, where the Yampa joins the Green

— — two rivers and the rock between them.

in the Front Range south of Boulder

— red rock the climbers learn by heart.

at the eastern gate of Rocky Mountain National Park

— a single high note across the cold meadow.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, where the Bear Lake trail ends

— the green the cirque keeps.

at the eastern gate of Rocky Mountain National Park

— — the lights coming on under Longs Peak.

in the meadows west of Pikes Peak

— — what the volcano kept of the redwoods.

on the tundra above the Big Thompson

— — the wilderness no trail goes into.

at the foot of the Colorado Front Range

— — the brick downtown Disney's Main Street leaned on.

where the plains meet the Front Range, west of Colorado Springs

— — a stone that has been about to fall for centuries.

high on the Front Range, west of Denver

— — a line that has to cross itself to climb.

in Glenwood Springs, at the western mouth of Glenwood Canyon

— — a long pool of held heat.

in the Colorado Rockies, where the Colorado meets the Roaring Fork

— — where the snow falls on warm water.

on the western edge of Rocky Mountain National Park

— — the colour the divide gives the water last.

on the mesa above Grand Junction

— — three hundred lakes on a roof of basalt.

on the Continental Divide, an hour west of Denver

— the ridge that holds them both.

below the rim of Black Canyon, in western Colorado

— the river the sun barely finds.

in Glenwood Canyon, east of Glenwood Springs

— — a pool the cliff still holds.

below Steamboat Springs, in northwest Colorado

— — the morning the river left lace on every branch.

above Estes Park, in Rocky Mountain National Park

— — first light, the herd back in the bend.

in downtown Boulder, a mile east of the Flatirons

— a sky of coloured glass, indoors.

in Glenwood Springs, above the hot-springs pool

— — peach sandstone holding a Rocky Mountain evening.

on the rim of Keeley Canyon, in the Colorado Four Corners

— — stone the solstice still finds.

high in the San Juans, above Silverton

— the blue the snow becomes.

in the Front Range, west of Denver

— a town gold built and left to weather.

high in the Sawatch, above Aspen

— the silence after the silver left.

east of Aspen, on the Continental Divide

— — the road the snow keeps for itself.

in the West Elks, west of Crested Butte

— the week one grove turns to gold.

high in the Colorado Rockies, above Dillon Reservoir

— the colour the day held back.

in Garden of the Gods, below Pikes Peak

— two heads of red stone, leaning in at the top.

west of the Continental Divide, below the Indian Peaks

— — the morning the divide doubles on the water.

on Denver's oldest block, between 14th and 15th

— the half-hour the bulbs and the sky trade places.

high in central Colorado, between the Sawatch and the Mosquito ranges

— snow on the Sawatch, smoke on the line.

high in the Colorado Rockies, at the foot of the Sawatch Range

— — the highest main street, the Sawatch out behind it.

above Telluride, high in the San Juans

— the wood that outlasted the gold.

the high plains east of the Front Range

— the white instant before the thunder catches up.

high in Rocky Mountain National Park, west of Estes Park

— — still water under the cathedral wall.

in the Indian Peaks, an hour west of Boulder

— — the morning the pass came down to the water.

above Chasm Lake, in Rocky Mountain National Park

— — the wall the morning finds first.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, west of Estes Park

— — the dark face the dawn finds first.

high on the Continental Divide, west of Denver

— — the road that crosses where the rivers part.

northwest of Mesa Verde, on the Great Sage Plain

— a great kiva, sunk into the plain, painted in layers.

at the eastern foot of Pikes Peak

— — soda water from the rock, peak in the window.

on Trail Ridge Road, above Estes Park

— — a curve in the road, four valleys wide.

ten miles southwest of Aspen, in the Elk Range

— two red peaks above a week of gold.

above Maroon Lake, in the Elk Range west of Aspen

— the week the aspens turn gold against the maroon.

in the Elk Mountains, west of Aspen

— the iron red the lake holds before the wind.

at the foot of the Maroon Bells, west of Aspen

— the morning the Bells stand twice.

above Leadville, across from the Sawatch Range

— — a promise kept thirty-six winters.

in the San Juans, between Silverton and Ouray

— above the timber, between the red mountains.

in Glacier Gorge, beneath Longs Peak

— — the colour Longs Peak keeps after the sun is gone.

on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park, at the head of the Colorado River

— — the willows moved before the moose did.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, above Estes Park

— the September the meadow turns to sound.

in the Front Range, west of Denver

— the minute the granite turns gold.

in the Sawatch Range, west of Leadville

— — the broad shoulder above everything else.

in the Front Range, southwest of Denver

— the road that ends above the weather.

high in the Front Range, west of Denver

— the last water before the summit.

in southern Colorado, east of the San Luis Valley

— the snow above the sand.

west of Leadville, in the Sawatch

— a ridge that takes all afternoon to walk.

in the Sawatch Range, west of Vail

— — the cross the snow holds into July.

in Colorado's Sawatch Range, above the Arkansas Valley

— chalk where the snow should be.

above the Dallas Divide, in Colorado's San Juans

— — the week the aspens turn the valley gold.

high in the San Juans, southwest of Telluride

— the peaks the light leaves last.

in Colorado's Collegiate Peaks, west of Buena Vista

— — the morning before the storms come up.

in the Front Range, an hour west of Denver

— the herd that finds you above the willows.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, west of Estes Park

— — the slow climb above the timber.

above Cunningham Gulch, in the San Juans

— — still up there, after everyone left.

in the San Juans, at the head of the Uncompahgre

— — a town the canyon agreed to keep.

in the southern San Juans, where the river runs warm

— — the steam the river breathes in winter.

in the southern San Juans, along the river

— — the warmth the mountain has been keeping.

on the plains east of Colorado Springs

— — the colour the prairie was hiding.

on the South Rim of the Black Canyon, half an hour east of Montrose

— the lightning the rock kept.

on the shortgrass plains of northeastern Colorado

— — what was left after the wind took everything else.

on the high plains of northeastern Colorado

— two buttes and a horizon that doesn't stop.

along Colorado's Front Range, between Estes Park and Black Hawk

— a road for the week the aspens turn.

in the Comanche Grassland of southeast Colorado, just shy of Oklahoma

— the wall the sunrise still finds, twice a year.

above Manitou Springs, at the top of the Front Range

— — the air the song was written in.

outside Colorado Springs, at the foot of the Front Range

— a fourteener held in red sandstone.

above Colorado Springs, in the Front Range

— the road the trees stop following.

above Colorado Springs, at the south end of the Front Range

— — the country opens east.

in the San Juans, north of Durango on the road to Silverton

— the snow the San Juans hold from October to April.

in Colorado's Elk Range, south of Maroon Lake

— — a rust-red triangle the lake holds at dawn.

south of Breckenridge, at the head of the Tenmile Range

— the cold blue a peak keeps before dawn.

fifteen miles west of Denver, in the Front Range foothills

— — the rock catches the light before the city does.

high above Grand Junction, in western Colorado

— — a road the canyon let through.

south of Denver, where the prairie meets the Rockies

— the morning the ridge turns red.

above the Arkansas River, west of Cañon City

— — a thousand feet of air below the planks.

in southern Colorado, west of Cañon City

— — a thousand feet of granite, and a thread of water.

south of Pikes Peak, at the bottom of the gorge

— — the river, the rock, and a strip of sky.

a loop through the San Juans of southwestern Colorado

— — the week the high passes turn gold.

in the canyons west of Mesa Verde

— the village that left, the spring that stayed.

in the San Luis Valley, between the Sangre de Cristos and the San Juans

— — the morning the field lifts into the air.

in Aspen's West End, the Elk Range over the rooflines

— gingerbread porches with a fourteener behind them.

deep in the San Juans, north of Durango

— — the colour that survives at the snowline.

above the last trees in Rocky Mountain National Park

— — the cathedral the glacier left behind.

above Aspen, the Elk Range across the valley

— — above the town silver built, the range goes on.

in Colorado Springs, where the plains meet the Front Range

— a snow the red rock will not hold long.

high in Colorado's Elk Range, west of Aspen

— a snow that the summer never finishes.

above the Dallas Divide, in Colorado's San Juans

— — the pink the snow keeps after the sun goes.

east of Glenwood Springs, high above the canyon

— — water out of the rock, into the green.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, off the Bear Lake Road

— — the mountain twice, while the wind is still asleep.

high in Colorado's Sawatch Range, end of the Chalk Creek road

— what the mountain kept when the trains stopped.

above Estes Park, at the eastern edge of the Rockies

— the white hotel that wrote its own ghost story.

in the Yampa Valley, northwest Colorado

— a valley the light takes its time leaving.

in downtown Durango, at the foot of the San Juans

— the honky-tonk piano carrying up through room 222.

seven miles up a dirt road from Steamboat Springs

— — steam in the snow, an hour past sundown.

on the South Rim of the Black Canyon, in western Colorado

— the canyon takes the dark first.

in old Leadville, at the foot of Mount Massive

— — the room the silver built.

at the head of a box canyon in the San Juans

— — a valley with no way through.

across the Sawatch Range, between Leadville and Aspen

— — where the road climbs above the trees and stays.

in Rocky Mountain National Park, between Estes Park and Grand Lake

— — the hour the tundra keeps the colour.

across the top of Rocky Mountain National Park, in northern Colorado

— — the country above the trees.

below the basalt rim of the Flat Tops, in northwest Colorado

— — the lake that taught us to leave a place alone.

high on Trail Ridge Road, in the Colorado Rockies

— — the country above the trees.

in the Sawatch, west of Leadville

— the highest peak in the Rockies, twice over.

on the high plains of southeast Colorado, between Springfield and Lamar

— a basin of sky between the buttes.

in the Eagle Valley, at the foot of Vail Mountain

— a wooden roof, the creek below, the village beyond.

high in Colorado's Sawatch Range, at the foot of Mount Belford

— the cabins the silver left behind.

at the foot of Battle Mountain, on the back of Pikes Peak

— — a brick town the gold left standing.

thirteen miles south of La Junta on the southeast Colorado plains

— the green seam in the shortgrass.

at the western end of the South Rim, Black Canyon of the Gunnison

— — the longest look into the dark.

east of the Front Range, on the high prairie

— amber, all the way to Kansas.

high in the Elk Range, west of the Divide

— the few weeks the meadow forgets the snow.

west of Denver, on the Continental Divide

— — the bowl the wind keeps filling.

on the Continental Divide, in the San Juans of southern Colorado

— — where the storms come down first.

below the Park Range, through downtown Steamboat

— the river the dams never reached.

high above Ouray, in the San Juans

— — the two weeks the snowfields become columbine.

on the Hāmākua Coast, north of Hilo

— — the long fall into the green.

on the Hāmākua Coast, north of Hilo

— — a thread of white through the tree-fern green.

on the south shore of Kauai, a few miles west of Poipu

— the green a valley keeps for itself.

above Pier 9 in Honolulu Harbor

— the word the harbour wears on all four sides.

on the leeward coast of Kauai, facing Niʻihau

— — the sand that hums underfoot.

moored at Ford Island, across the harbour from the Arizona

— the deck where the war ended.

south of Wailea, at the end of the Maui coast road

— the long sand at the end of the road.

on the Wailuku River, just above Hilo

— the river the lava taught to boil.

below the Ko'olau cliffs on Oahu's windward side

— — the long minute after the bell.

north of Kapalua, on the northwest shore of Maui

— gold sand the pines have shadowed for a century.

above the east end of Waikiki

— the climb that ends in the whole Pacific.

in central Oahu, on the road to the North Shore

— — the sweet road between two mountain ranges.

on the high red plain at the north end of Lāna'i

— — the colour the wind left behind.

at the southern tip of the Big Island, east of South Point

— — the green the old volcano left behind.

high on Haleakalā, above the trade-wind clouds on Maui

— — silver against the cinder, the years before the bloom.

on the summit of Maui, above the clouds

— the morning the dark gives the colour back.

on the southeast shore of Oahu, east of Waikiki

— the place the sea breathes out.

on the windward coast of the Big Island

— — the road the cane left behind.

two miles north of Lahaina, at the south end of Kaʻanapali

— where the canoes still come down at dawn.

on the Nā Pali Coast, two miles past the end of the road

— — the beach the winter takes back.

in the Nā Pali, four miles in from Keʻe Beach

— — water down a wall of ferns.

on the north shore of Kauai

— a wooden walk, the green wall behind.

on Kauai's north shore, behind Princeville

— — a valley flat enough to hold the sky.

in Hanapepe, on Kauai's west side

— the bridge the hurricane took and the town put back.

on the southeast tip of Oahu, ten miles east of Waikiki

— a crater the sea moved into.

on the Kohala Coast, in the lee of Mauna Kea

— a half-mile the lava leaves alone.

on the reef shelf off the North Shore of Oahu

— — the stone that thinks, then is gone.

on a peninsula in Hilo Bay, Big Island

— — a green colonnade, each column signed.

on the Hāmākua Coast, north of Hilo on the Big Island

— a plantation town the trade wind keeps green.

deep in the West Maui Mountains

— — the long white the road can't reach.

on Maui's northwest shore, just past Kapalua

— — the bay the rainforest opens onto.

on the Road to Hana, north-east Maui

— where the rainforest spills into the Pacific.

on the Kaʻū coast of Hawaiʻi Island

— — the warm afternoon the honu come up to sleep.

on the Big Island, where the lava meets the sea

— — the warm black stone the honu come back for.

on Maui's north shore, just past Pa'ia

— where the trades come ashore.

high on Maui's Haleakalā, above the cloud deck

— — a temperate forest the volcano kept.

in the channel between Maui and Lanaʻi

— the song you can hear through the hull.

in the coral shallows off every Hawaiian island

— — the reef's coat of arms.

in the West Maui Mountains, west of Wailuku

— the green the valley keeps for itself.

in the upland forests of the Big Island

— — two reds that need each other.

in downtown Honolulu, a few blocks back from the harbor

— — the palace that outlived the kingdom.

the north end of Kaanapali Beach, west Maui

— the cliff the old chiefs leapt from at sundown.

on Kaʻanapali Beach, north of Lahaina

— the open-air evening between the shops and the sea.

the westernmost tip of Oʻahu

— — where the road runs out, and the wind keeps going.

on the Kona Coast, south of Kailua-Kona

— the water the lava wall keeps still.

on the windward side of Oahu, across the Ko'olau from Honolulu

— the wind that keeps the turquoise moving.

on the windward coast of Lanai

— the wreck the reef won't release.

eleven miles past the highway on Kauaʻi's Nā Pali Coast

— — the green the road never reaches.

at the end of the road in Kōkeʻe, on Kauaʻi

— — the morning before the clouds come up the cliffs.

southeast of Hilo, where the road ends

— what the volcano leaves behind.

on the north shore of Molokai, below the cliffs

— — what the cliffs have kept to themselves.

along the Wailua River, inland from Kauai's east shore

— — the village the river kept.

at the northwest tip of Maui, between two lava points

— the shape of two arms around the water.

in Waikīkī, at the foot of Diamond Head

— the shade a tree builds out of itself.

four miles west of Hilo, on the eastern flank of Mauna Loa

— a room the lava poured itself out of.

on the South Kona coast of Hawaii Island

— — the water the cliffs keep still.

on the windward coast of Maui, halfway to Hana

— the green that grew on the lava.

at the end of the road on Kauaʻi's north shore

— the last calm water before the cliffs.

on Maui's leeward south shore, west-facing

— the minute the palms go ink against the gold.

on the leeward coast of Oahu, west of Honolulu

— the ocean, kept calm in four crescents.

above Hanauma Bay on Oahu's east shore

— — a ladder up the side of a volcano.

on the leeward slopes of Hualālai and Mauna Loa, the long western shoulder of Hawaiʻi Island

— the morning before the cloud comes in.

on the windward coast of Oahu, north of Kāneʻohe

— — the valley the wind keeps rinsing green.

on Oʻahu's North Shore, where the coast bends east toward Kahuku

— — the bay the turtles taught us the name of.

high on the slope of Haleakalā, in upcountry Maui

— purple at four thousand feet, above the trade winds.

across from Lahaina Harbor, on the western shore of Maui

— — the shade that came back after the fire.

on Maui's western shore, across the channel from Lanai

— — where the banyan still stands.

on the North Shore of Oahu, between Haleiwa and Waimea

— where the honu come ashore to rest.

on the windward side of Oʻahu, east of Honolulu

— two islands across a sea the wind forgot.

above Lanikai, on Oahu's windward coast

— — the first light over the Mokulua Islands.

east of Pāhoa, in the Puna rainforest

— — a forest the lava kept the shape of.

past Wailea, behind the cinder cone

— the half-moon the road can't reach.

on Kauai's east shore, at the mouth of the Wailua River

— — a piece of ocean you can walk into.

four miles south of Kailua-Kona, on the Kona coast

— a beach the ocean keeps borrowing.

on the south shore of Kauai, east of Po'ipū

— — red dunes turned to stone above the surf.

on Oʻahu's western shore, about an hour west of Honolulu

— the wave the cliffs hear coming.

at the eastern tip of Oahu, looking across the channel toward Molokai

— — a white lantern at the edge of the wind.

upcountry Maui, on the western slope of Haleakalā

— — a cowboy town older than Cheyenne.

at the north end of Lahaina, on Maui's west shore

— — what the storm left, the turtles kept.

on the Kona coast of the Big Island

— — the morning the dolphins come in to rest.

at the back of Mānoa Valley above Honolulu

— a green you can hear before you see it.

off the Kona coast of the Big Island, after dark

— — a wing the size of a doorway, turning in the light.

in Waikapū, at the foot of the West Maui Mountains

— the green the mountain keeps watered.

on the Kohala Coast of Hawaiʻi Island

— the white the lava lets through.

high on Mauna Kea, on the Big Island

— — the silver that waits decades to flower.

above the trade winds, on the Big Island

— — the sky the telescopes came for.

off Kualoa, on Oahu's windward shore

— — the tail the goddess left behind.

on West Maui, north of Kapalua

— the blue the road keeps to itself.

off the south coast of Maui

— half a volcano, the water clear to the floor.

on the south shore of Kauai

— the morning the beach belonged to the seal.

high on the spine of Lanai

— — where the pines turn cloud into water.

the northwest cliffs of Kauaʻi

— the green the road never finds.

on the windward coast of East Maui, along the Hāna Highway

— the green the rain keeps making.

on Maui's northwest shore, between Kapalua and Ka'anapali

— — where the honu come in to feed.

on the cinder slopes above the Maui clouds

— a goose that learned the lava.

past Hāna, on Maui's southeast coast

— — pool to pool, the long walk to the sea.

on Maui's leeward coast, between Lahaina and Mā'alaea

— the reef every other reef comes from.

north of Hilo on the Hāmākua Coast

— — a rainforest that runs down to the sea.

above the Wailua, on the east shore of Kauai

— — water rolling, the way the shrimp once did.

on the east coast of Maui, in Waiʻanapanapa State Park

— — black basalt the Pacific wore through.

above Honaunau Bay, on the Kona coast of the Big Island

— the cathedral painted into a small wooden room.

in the Koʻolau Range, above the windward coast of Oʻahu

— the wind that holds the rain in place.

on the Big Island, in the saddle between Mauna Kea and the Kohala Mountains

— — the green Hawaii keeps for itself.

on the North Shore of Oahu, between Sunset and Waimea

— — the glass second before the wave folds.

on Kauai's south shore, in Koloa

— the old swimmer the warm sand keeps.

at the end of the road on Kauaʻi's west shore

— — where the road ends and the cliffs begin.

on the western slope of Haleakalā

— California fog, six thousand feet up a volcano.

at the north end of the Big Island's Kohala coast

— — the black crescent where the road runs out.

where the road ends on the Big Island's windward coast

— fold after fold of cliff, all the way to Waipiʻo.

in Lāʻie, on the windward coast of Oʻahu

— the sound the beach was named for.

below the Princeville cliffs, on Kauaʻi's north shore

— — the pool the sea leaves on the lava.

on the road to Hāna, two-thirds of the way out

— — water older than the road that found it.

in the upcountry pastures of Maui

— the day owl that watches back.

on the Kaʻū coast of the Big Island

— — black sand, and the turtles come ashore to warm.

above Honolulu, in an old crater

— the city's noise stops at the rim.

on Oahu's North Shore, just past Waimea Bay

— the still water the lava leaves at low tide.

on the Kona coast, south of Kailua-Kona

— — where the law could not follow.

at the edge of Hilo, on the Big Island

— the rainbow the morning leaves in the mist.

below Kaʻuiki Head, just south of Hāna

— — a pocket of red the cliff keeps refilling.

across the Big Island, between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa

— — the road the rain forgets.

on Kauai's west side, a mile from Hanapepe town

— — the summer the sea becomes salt.

on the southeast coast of Oʻahu, past Hanauma Bay

— — the wave that breaks on dry sand.

on the windward north shore of Lanai, across the channel from west Maui

— a coast that keeps what the channel hands ashore.

between Wailua and Kapaa, on the east shore of Kauai

— — a giant who lay down after the feast, and stayed.

on the rim of Haleakalā, the volcano that makes most of Maui

— — a long red walk down into the quiet.

the southern tip of the Big Island, and of the country

— — the wind that bends the trees and never lets up.

on the South Kona coast of the Big Island

— the morning the dolphins come in to rest.

on Kauai's south shore, west of Poipu

— a moan, then a column of sea.

on Oahu's North Shore, just up the coast from Pipeline

— the colour the Pacific saves for last.

above Honolulu, on the forested ridge between Round Top and Mount Tantalus

— the hour the city turns into lanterns.

on the road to Hāna, East Maui

— — water coming down in three voices.

on Kauai's north shore, where Kuhio Highway runs out

— — the summer the reef opens.

the first waterfall stop on the road to Hana

— — the green the rainforest keeps.

on the upcountry slope of Haleakalā, above south Maui

— pasture and pineapple, on the volcano's dry side.

in Pearl Harbor, on the south coast of Oahu

— — the white above the sunken ship.

on the high plateau of central O'ahu, between the Wai'anae and Ko'olau ranges

— a green the island keeps in one ravine.

on Maui's east coast, near Hāna

— the colour the lava left behind.

at the east end of Waikiki Beach, on Oʻahu's south shore

— — the green crater above the long beach.

on the south shore of Maui

— — the crescent the trades don't reach.

on the south-west shore of Maui, in the lee of Haleakalā

— the hour before the trades come up.

on the Hāna Highway, just past Hāna on the way to Kīpahulu

— — the curtain at mile forty-five.

on Kauai's east side, four miles inland from Lihue

— the rainbow that lives in the falling mist.

on the windward coast of Oʻahu, southeast of Honolulu

— the morning the sun walks straight out of the sea.

on the Big Island's Hāmākua coast, north of Waipiʻo

— a green amphitheater open to the sea.

on the North Shore of Oʻahu, an hour north of Honolulu

— — the winter the ocean stands up.

on the north shore of O'ahu, behind Waimea Bay

— the green the rain keeps deepening.

at the end of the Pipiwai Trail, past Hāna on east Maui

— — the cliff the bamboo opens onto.

on the north shore of Kauaʻi, between Hanalei and Hāʻena

— — where the rain comes home to the sea.

on the Puna coast of the Big Island, east of Pahoa

— — the water before the lava came.

on the Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island

— a thousand feet of green falling to the sea.

at the far western corner of O'ahu

— the last beach before the road runs out.

off the west coast of County Mayo

— — green that runs all the way to the sea.

southwest of Limerick, on the Maigue

— — a row of thatched roofs along a slow river.

in Galway Bay, off Ireland's west coast

— — stone walls all the way to the edge.

on a headland above the Celtic Sea, in County Waterford

— the long quiet after the bells stopped.

on the Shannon, in the middle of Ireland

— a keep at the country's quiet centre.

in County Sligo, on Ireland's northwest coast

— — a flat-topped mountain combed by rain.

five miles northwest of Cork city

— the green that grew into the wall.

on the River Boyle, below the Curlew Mountains.

— — what the light kept after the roof was gone.

on the Loop Head Peninsula, where Clare meets the Atlantic

— — the arch the sea hasn't taken yet.

in a field east of Carlow town

— set down once, and never lifted.

by the Shannon Estuary, west of Limerick

— — a tower that learned to wait.

on an island in the River Suir, in southern Ireland

— — the grey the river keeps polishing.

on the Causeway Coast of County Antrim

— — a rope above the chasm, above the sea.

west of Dublin, on the Liffey

— a Palladian face above the river.

at the mouth of Clew Bay, on Ireland's west coast

— a mountain that falls straight into the sea.

on the Atlantic coast of County Clare

— — a wall the Atlantic keeps editing.

on the east bank of the Shannon, in the Irish midlands

— the silence the river kept.

on Great Island, in Cork Harbour

— — the last Irish light, before the open sea.

in the south-east of Ireland, between Dungarvan and Clonmel

— — the dark water at the foot of the wall.

west of Galway, on the Atlantic edge

— — the brown and silver country, just after rain.

between the Mournes and Dundalk Bay

— — a country older than the border.

south of Waterford, the slow road west

— a coastline the colour of an old penny.

on the Mountdillon bogs, in the Irish midlands

— — oak the bog would not give back.

above Clew Bay, in County Mayo

— — a hill a country climbs barefoot.

on the Kildare plain, southwest of Dublin

— — a country wide enough for the wind.

on the cliffs of north Mayo, above the Atlantic

— what the storm of 1393 left behind.

on the cliffs of Inishmore, in Galway Bay

— half a circle of stone, then the Atlantic.

on the basalt cliffs of the Causeway Coast, west of Bushmills

— — the castle the sea has been taking back.

on the Dingle Peninsula, west of Ventry

— — the door the wind walks through.

on the Atlantic edge of Donegal

— the white tower the Atlantic keeps finding.

on the south coast of Cork, between Rosscarbery and Clonakilty

— — a light that turns to find the land.

in south Tipperary, between the Galtees and Slievenamuck

— — the long green held between two ridges.

in the Dartry hills, above Glencar Lough

— — the wandering water above the lake.

south of Dublin, in the Wicklow Mountains

— — the morning the mist sits on both lakes.

in the Derryveagh Mountains, northwest Donegal

— — a castle the glen kept after the people left.

in County Wicklow, south of Dublin

— — a cone of quartzite the ice age sharpened.

across the Liffey in central Dublin

— iron lace over a slow brown river.

in County Meath, north-west of Dublin

— the wind that knew the kings.

in Tipperary, south of Thurles

— the silence the Suir kept for three hundred years.

at the southeast tip of Ireland

— eight centuries of the same patient light.

at the north arm of Dublin Bay

— gorse, gulls, and the long Irish Sea.

on a Connemara lane, west of Galway

— — the white wall the Atlantic couldn't move.

in the Nore valley, south of Thomastown

— the company the cloister still keeps.

on a bend of the River Nore, southeast Ireland

— — eight centuries leaning into the bend of the Nore.

in Kilkenny, southwest of Dublin

— a thousand years down a single street.

in County Kerry, at the foot of the Reeks

— — the morning the cloud lifts off the lake.

in County Kerry, at the foot of the Macgillycuddy's Reeks

— — a dark mirror under the Reeks.

on King's Island, where the Shannon bends through Limerick

— limestone the Shannon has watched for eight centuries.

on the south coast of Ireland, where the Bandon meets the sea

— the painted town the rain makes brighter.

above Sligo Bay, in the northwest of Ireland

— the cairn the centuries keep adding to.

in Connemara, on the shore of Pollacapall Lough

— the granite the lake remembers.

on the cliffs at the mouth of the Shannon

— — a steady light at the end of the land.

in the drumlin country of County Monaghan

— — a green so old it forgets the year.

in the Wicklow Mountains, an hour south of Dublin

— the colour of a pint poured slowly.

on the Iveragh Peninsula, west of Killarney

— — the ridge the cloud comes to rest on.

at the top of Ireland's Inishowen peninsula

— where Ireland runs out of land.

in County Louth, north of Drogheda

— the gospel still legible in the sandstone.

above Dunlewey, in northwest Donegal

— — the cone the last light turns pink.

the high point of the Blackstairs, in Ireland's southeast

— the day the view runs all the way to Wales.

on the north Sligo coast, looking across Donegal Bay

— — the green headland the Atlantic comes to find.

in the Boyne Valley, an hour north of Dublin

— the room the sun visits once a year.

on the south Cork coast, below Kinsale

— the land sharpens to a white light.

on the Leitrim shore of Lough Gill, east of Sligo

— stone the lake keeps coming back to.

on the bare limestone of the Burren, west of Galway

— stone that has held the sky for six thousand years.

in the Wicklow Mountains, south of Dublin

— — a long white seam down dark rock.

around the Iveragh Peninsula, in the southwest of Ireland

— — the green the rain keeps.

in the Irish midlands, below Lough Ree

— — the slow green that runs through Ireland's middle.

above the Plain of Tipperary, in southern Ireland

— the silhouette you see before you see the town.

east of Portlaoise, in the Irish midlands

— a Norman keep the rock outlasted.

off the south Wexford coast, out from Kilmore Quay

— — the cliff that takes flight in May.

on the north hill above the River Lee, in Cork

— — the bells the city plays itself.

in the north-west of Ireland, below Cuilcagh

— a small dark eye, and a river begins.

in the Atlantic, off the Kerry coast

— — the rock the monks kept, eight miles out.

at the western tip of the Dingle Peninsula

— — the last green before the sea.

above Donegal Bay, on the Atlantic edge

— — a wall the Atlantic hasn't finished.

at the mouth of the Corrib, on the edge of Galway

— — the stone the river walks past on its way to the sea.

in County Roscommon, west of the Shannon

— a long avenue and a longer memory.

on Ireland's Atlantic coast, south of Galway Bay

— — where the stone keeps a garden.

on the Hook Peninsula in County Wexford

— — a vow made at sea, kept in grey stone.

in the oakwoods south of Killarney

— — the river the oak wood lets through.

on the River Boyne, an hour northwest of Dublin

— grey stone, green field, slow river.

on College Green in central Dublin

— the room the manuscripts grew into.

in Connemara, west of Galway

— the white stone, the morning after rain.

in County Wicklow, an hour south of Dublin

— — two rivers learning the same name.

at the head of Clew Bay

— the bay the town walks down to.

south of Dublin, the long granite uplands

— — stone walls and the colour of wet heather.

on Queen's Island, where the Lagan meets Belfast Lough

— — Samson and Goliath, still keeping watch.

on the north shore of Belfast Lough

— — the hour the lough goes flat and the stone goes warm.

on a country road in County Antrim, near the Causeway Coast

— two rows of beech that grew into one room.

on the Causeway Coast, north of Bushmills

— — the morning the tide steps back from the stones.

in Lower Lough Erne, north of Enniskillen

— — a round tower the lake didn't take back.

in County Down, where they sweep to the sea

— — the landscape C.S. Lewis kept seeing.

in the north of Ireland, west of the Bann

— — a low brown country, under a high grey sky.

on the Lecale coast, south of Killough

— — the colour Dundrum Bay steers by.

above the river Foyle, near Ireland's north coast

— — a circle the centuries kept.

in the foothills of the Sperrin Mountains, County Tyrone

— — what the peat had been keeping.

on a rocky hill above Dundrum village, looking south to the Mournes

— — a ring of stone above the bay.

south of Newry, in the borderlands

— the cairn the winter sun finds.

Kyoto, at hatsumode

— a sky too blue for night, a moon already gold.