This time of year….
I think the vines like this time of year. They carry no crop, no heavy bunches weighing them down, sapping their strength. Their leaves have dried, gone away to crumble into soil. No small legged things crawling, biting with mouths that chew, no tractors spewing sulphur on them week after week. The burning sun has faded into a cold memory. Their canes are free, naked, stark, bare in the morning fog. It is time to sleep. I think the vines like this time of year.
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I can see the sleep concept. But taking it further, during sleep, we dream. sometimes we dream. Sometimes dreams become future realities. Many times, when I see the sleeping vines of winter, I see the potential of spring buds, summer fruit, and autumn wine. Them I realize how cold it is, I go inside, light a fire, and take a nap.
I think the winemaker finally has time to take pictures of the vines this time of year.