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The cold night breeze sent the tin can rattling along in an unsure meandering path rolling in and out of the gutter. Stopping and starting again, its erratic clinking cut the night’s silence to carry Falzoni’s mind back to a time of his responsibility of a different kind; as when he had helped in his grand-father’s farm outhouse workshop, amidst the satisfying sound of tools impinging on shining steel ploughing implements, if not on great horseshoes, gigantic to him as a small kid. Hammered and honed like those blades of the valiant Cavaliere di Corredo, (Italian medieval knights). As would his grand-father forever intone to encourage him in his craft as well as the country’s glorious folklore. That was long before Jerry, the British and the Americans got huffy enough to start planting
