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When we return to these pieces, a third voice rises from the page. Ghazals are a perfect match for trail making and following. In each couplet, we are offering one another a way marker. Desire paths etch Atlantic sky: twin contrails heading west.

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To fly is to follow a path written and fast fading. The way laughter echoes. Under our hands, waxed paper, oil pastel, the etch and trace of centuries. Our eyes trace paths: stone archways now filled in. Electric wires that descend. Time, too, a kind of road chasing in on itself, looping, vulpine. Changing perspective: window, wall, archway. At home, I circumnavigate a field. Sky falls away. The way sound clambers these laneways, their rose-stone walls. Where is that bell ringing from? Those bells.

Cutlery thrown to tile floor. Windows shuttered like eyes against the rain. Houses fold inward, yet voices rise. Some never quiet. Some never sleep. Whatever home is, it beckons.

If every path is a flight away — heat rises. Coo of pigeon. Everywhere, the rock doves chirring. Our voices a threat, come from away. We pass. What clamour, these bells! Jester jangling, rust rattling in tower sockets. Potted plants hooked in precarious stone green this space. We amble-slide down rain-dark paths. For every plane, what cost? A rainforest, coastline, species. Keeping vigil, these pigeons march atop citadel walls.

They know what storms humans bring. The way a deluge strikes, recedes. The way humans strike. Silenced, this world in our wake. Pigeons recede, bats, cicadas. Garbage: rusted tin, flattened bottle, dropped tissue: my mom left a trail behind her. How we mine the past for value. Discard the difficult, artefacts that pry at conscience.

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Value — a hard word in this commodified world. Flying squirrel. Peregrine falcon. Writing as witness, protest, dirge. Our eyes pinned open. Our spirits splayed.

There she goes — water drop to river; voice to woman on trail, not picking flowers, not picking. It takes me some time to process coming back, coming home. My emotions are scattered and raw in returning to the land, to my writing work, and to the relationships I hold here. From Italy in July, I go back to the small organic farm I run with my husband at the very southern skirt of the great boreal forest that skims from northern Alberta up to the Arctic. Where we once had countless days of heat, we now have week after week of heavy rain.

Crops that formerly ripened without effort now mould in the fields. All around our farm, neighbours are selling up and moving out. I come home deeply conflicted about air travel and all it means for the rapidly altering climate of our world, and intensely aware of how this change plays out on the land I love. I come home torn in my own desire paths of work and relationship, too. I am a writer who has never been able to write full time, not even part time, who has always had to carry a 9—5 day job in order to support my husband and help our two families.

My husband retired early after three decades of part-time work and parental care, and we cannot survive if I do not work. My desire path for my writing is crammed into the interstices between the work of the day and the work of grading papers — and the work of a body that is often too tired to make best use of the time scraps that remain.

For nine months of the year, I surrender my writing and try to weather the pummeling of unsaid words behind my sternum. I wonder if men have this depth of resignation. The land I love is a place I manage with my husband; my own work is a place circumscribed by the need to support him. I often feel as though I would like to be able to move in the world without needing this connection, but I am aware at each instance of how a coloured female body is impacted, especially in rural Alberta, especially in an isolated farming community.

At the same time that I would love to find a balance for myself and my life between teaching and writing, I am also aware of a need to support a partner I care for who keeps me safe. And I am deeply cognizant of how rare it is for a coloured woman to hold a high-paying job, and the depth of privilege that my teaching work gives me over coloured collleagues who have been unable to attain, or have been kept out of, similar positions.

Desire paths circumscribed by my skin, my gender, rerouted by my connection to a white man, to a piece of beautiful wild land in a white conservative county. To a place that frightens me in its inability to award me agency, to a marriage and a day job that do not see the layers of racialised privilege inherent within them.

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Two and a half months after returning from Assisi, I sit through the beautiful, intimate wedding ceremont of a former student who is marrying the Ghanaian love of his life and moving back to his small Alberta hometown — the same town near which my husband and I have our farm. She talks with me at the reception about these shared fears of isolation and dependence, joy and circumscription. Radical right-wing farming country and her coloured face, the pressures on a young mixed-race relationship.

That my husband and I are walking the same path, and that we can always offer company. I hold all of these paths in my mind. I think of all of us women, our desires for agency and safety beyond what our faces afford us. I come back from Assisi and I fall over these roles, these strategic blocks. They are constantly under my feet, requiring ongoing awareness I am at times too tired to possess.