One evening before the gulls flew to bed we saw a boat hanging from the sky. A giant crane snatched it from the tiny harbor and cranked it to the street that drapes over the hill. With no cars in town, the fishing boats parallel park in front of the shops. Houses rise like a wall of colored blocks. Alleys and stairways thread the town, fissures in bedrock. Above it all, vineyards grip the sky to catch the first and last sun of the day.