He looked at the glass

and thought it was determined.  But upon the olfactory greeting he was stumped.  What happened in the last few days since ML finished?  This, he wasn’t used to.  The glass told him to taste.  He did.  He didn’t recognize his own wine.  This was his barrel, no?  So many in this collective crush facility–  he looked at the tag.  His.  What was this?  He remembered what someone said long ago during that one harvest, Pinot from just off Shiloh–  “You never know what it’ll do once in bin, tank, barrel…” He looked at it again.  It wanted a sip. So, what– what.  It’s wine, what’s the big fucking deal.  The compromise, hearing out the wine, more determination of the structuring of it all.. mirrors, how it tastes, how le vin evolves in its character and role and recital.

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” He could hear it protest.  He sipped while shaving.  Tomorrow, to do more than he wanted, the notes from the bottle pulled him from sentenced dullness… what now then, cooking his own composure and pace, mediated and made with the mood not of his following.  What else to wade in but inner meditations, more measuring of his relationship with his wine.  He dumped out the rest, continued revolving in other images and wined routes.  Tomorrow would be a long day… inventory, then racking, then paper work for grower contracts.  Why did he do this to himself?  Nothing was determined, he thought.  “The wine can change…I can change…this all can change.” And, for advantage.  This would be his thirteenth year as a grower/winemaker.  Thir-teen.  How did that happen?  Where did time go?  He was wasting time thinking this way.  Get to bed, wake early, run, then to those Pinot barrels, hope they’re more communicative.  It was late, all he could do was hope that it wasn’t too late.

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