On lunch, taking early as I

host a private group later, think 1:30.  Day, gorgeous, just want to walk around the vineyard and take notes as I do so, what I see in the leaves’ color scheme and what I feel in the air’s consistency.  Characters around me disclosing their love of wine and where they come from, how they just got married and that they have to rush down to Oakland airport to catch planes, two in the group going home to New Mexico while the other couple’s headed back to Boulder (CO, obviously, but I felt I needed be specific).  The weather’s mild, possible temperature increase but I feel no time soon.  Yes, the vineyard is definitely instructing me to walk around, be out there, in the vineyard like I always say I am, listen to the natural verses of the terroir and forget about any anxieties or worry.  There’s no need for that in the vineyard.  In fact, it doesn’t work, if you need know.  Out there, there’s only zen, a consistent and assembled meditation with each sole movement.  Walking and walking, meditation atop meditation.  I stop with my writing for a minute to lift my head, look up, left, out, out at that block of— what is it, Zin?  Don’t know.  And it doesn’t matter.  Need a walk, ‘poetry in the vineyard’ I thought while driving up Dry Creek to the winery here.  I can only do so much just sitting here at this table.  I need to be out there, like when I travel: only be in hotel room writing at the end of the day, after you’ve gathered all your story and stories and characters, scenic specifies and colors and most intricate and precise detail of a single thing, singularizing to a page, one thing, like the posts at the end of vineyard rows.  How people just walk by them, not pay them even a microscopic piece of a mind?  Not me.  I see.  I react.  I scribble (or in this case right now type).