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.
Friday, December 4, 2009
This time of year....
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