babies back in beds, asleep, Alice spent from her long day. ME, I can’t stop. But then, I wasn’t working all day the way my determined and much more professional than me wife was. She had a first day with twenty-something 6 and 7, or 8 year-olds. In usual predictable usualness, I’m downstairs, on the floor of the living room, planning next day. Thinking 8/18/16 should be a new business. What, though. Wine centered. Describing wines in verbs rather than adjectives— No. What then. Different shots of vines, grapes, the vineyard. I’m no photog’, I’m a writer, but I do tower with delight in taking pictures. So.. charge camera, leave early if I can, and shoot as many pics as I can— OH! Forgot we’re visiting a new vineyard tomorrow. And, I still have to post the shots from the last vineyard we visited. I know, it’s been done how many times? The long shot of the cover crop or some tilled row, or some cluster mid-veraison. But I’m looking to be some stylistic re-inventor or god with vineyard photography, just tell my story as one who loves vineyards— where I find propulsion, growth and a certain creative seismology. Zen, health, peace, all there in those rows that so many trivialize for photos and social media purposed, posts. I find something there, something only writers like Hemingway and Kerouac, Plath and Dostoevsky could translate. And I go on with my day, the third page, here right under me. Then what after that? Maybe another glass of the New Dad Cuvée Blair and I made in ’12. Wish I could sip this all night, to be honest, and just scribble singular words and brainstorm and not draw so formally. In my first hotel room, first road trip, you can wager.