(from my journal)

The wind is blowing out the windows, the leaves are sorts of colors.  Thirteen days have passed since the fish journal--the one beginning with the Winemaker--ran out of blank spaces.  My stomach has contracted for, but my feet found no spare minutes, time to sit and write.  now it is a Saturday, local, and there is coffee of course, and in a few minutes I will head out to Castillo de Feliciana, to absorb the wind, to pick grapes and walk the rows east toward the Blues, to fend off the rain just a few hours more and hold Winter back until her time.