The Thunderbird lives in the sun. << Morning Song >> A rice paper sky, delicate and transparent, cracks back peeling from its sea of faded silver spark in the black wing. The red eye of the campfire, now spent in memory as my dream of wine. I am not kept in mystery why the crow and the coyote sing now at their dawn host – to lament the passing and to welcome the anvil day before our work.
In the last hours before the first heavy rain of autumn across wine country in Northern California; under the largest of the Madrones, the silver-painted hills hum melodies slow and low; the Buckeye are laden with their heavy fruit, the leaves of the Valley Oak turn brittle and become wind born; the mushroom community begins to peek up from the shadows, asking if it is time yet. It is time; the cool wind bringing unparalleled relief.
There are few lands that tell such story as this rich soil; the floating perfume in the thin green line between the wind and the red earth. The beat, geologic; The liquid oak keeps time. The woven light wrap of a million sunrises is where the dancer keeps her private inspirations.
< Mount St. Helena in the distance >
The wine is so good, so pure, we must invent new words – the old words: sweet, fruit, dry, mineral. None work – Spicy, kind of works… Ultimately, language cannot describe why or how we love wine or perfume in as much as we can describe the spot in heaven where these angels sing.
The Coyote Wagon, a 1947 teardrop trailer.