Every Vineyard walk discloses something about time. How I spend my time, how long I’ve been here, what’s next, how much time I have left. The walking is never rushed, as every breath needs to be its own gem– its own lecture and moment of propulsion. All in a Vineyard, those Vineyards, the vineyard I’m standing in now. I’m here, where people visit from thousands of miles distant. The Vineyard tells me to not think about anything but the air, where I stand in this small puddle blended with mud and leaves from the past season, a couple cane. When I’m not in the Vineyard, I think about it. I dream about seeing Vineyards everywhere– Austria, Spain, Italy, Mendoza. There’s a bewitching ripple that sings from a Vineyard.. it further personifies me and self-personifies and narrates from its own beat. What comes to fruition is a certain atmosphere, something that can’t be tangible anywhere else. I stare at the wires, the drops falling from them, Dry Creek Road which stays silent so I can scribble these notes and hear what the rows and their tenacious cover crops compose. I stop walking, stop scribbling. And just stare. Appreciate the ‘Now’ more than any ‘Where’. But I’m here, a story progression intended. By what, I don’t know. The Vineyard itself, I’m sure.