1 Ounce, 2 Ounce, 3, 4, 5

I think about wine, and what it must be like to make it and watch it intimately in its evolution. The winemaker, the one making it, loving it and establishing closeness to it, an intimacy that only they, the Makers, relate to. So I sip and stare at the wine, this Pinot, in glass; what it’s been through, what did they do to it and how does it see me, just the sipper, the consumer, the opinionated. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I somehow want that closeness. I want wine to love me as the Makers love it, and I want to love It as the Makers do. So what to do, what do next, how to shift paths, careers, or not careers but presence, so soon, so sudden, so needed. It, this red, this Pinot, these pours, brought me here. I thank by sipping. And so slow.