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The truck rolls in in the squeak of morning, mist rising off low ground, magpies swirling a hymn in the highest branches in the first touch of sun.

We climb up into the gritty flatbed and heave heavy spears of wandoo, like Ulyssee's soldiers aiming to blind the Cyclops of vineyard.  Quickly warmed by the effort, we discard jumpers and fleece which join the disarray of salmon piles of posts.  The truck rolls off into the morning as we sort them into semblance of neatness and then haul them in twos and threes to their new homes in the sleeping cabernet sauvignon.

We auger holes in the living ground, place posts and ram, the steady thunk of metal on wood counterpoint to the crackling ocean.  We backfill and tamp in, lining up each post in perfect symmetry aided by brickie’s cord and tape measure and dumb luck, trusting our eyes and the strength of our hands.  And gradually, we plant out the vineyard with these lithe and hardy beings.

Finding rocks and small boulders, we lever them out, making exceptions in our strict lines when we fail to penetrate the ledge.  There are still spikes on the ground instead of in, while I struggle to figure out how and where to place them... 

Days later, I wander through this forest of poles that seems as if it’s always lived here.  In serried rows, like soldiers summoned to attention, awaiting the discipline of wire, and the next thrilling command.

I wander through this exceptional block with smiling face.  It is so beautiful and so "right".  It's like a sculpture that’s been released from the marble.  Was the vineyard always here, calling to be freed into this particular manifestation of perfection?

Oh Cabernet Sauvignon.  

 

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