Some pinot noir, the little black pine of France…

… up the hill, a long way from home…

… and a crow…

… or some omnivorous bird like that, at any rate, perhaps a Bohemian waxwing …

…and a vine that grows from the seed left in my garden, moved to climb up the pine, in the roman fashion, for the birds (who still prefer my seedless grapes, despite the invitation, and so leave the for me), becomes a meditation in a bottle …

Tomorrow, I rack it. Then it sits and dreams for awhile. Imagine that, a new Okanagan pinot. Not a clone. Just one chosen by the birds, noticed by a poet, and picked by a friend while we swapped stories on the edge of frost. This story is about seven years old now. Next year, it will be telling itself on our tongues. Perhaps the other pinot noirs up the hill will be gone by then. I wonder what this clever survivor will say!