The hunting season has begun - a season where slim aerodynamic cats darting through vineyards can be easily mistaken for rabbits.
And it is the ‘vendage’ - the season of little red lorries splashed in amongst the vines, and casquettes peeping up as the pickers stretch their backs. The Dutch and Belgian caravans have been replaced with the clonking of vehicles transporting crates of ripe fruit from the field to the co-opérative. It is easier to honk impatiently at a caravan going slow than a million Muscat grapes.
This morning there was breeze soft as coconut milk. A film of fur is resting on the burgeoning quinces and wild pears are multiplying by the roadside. The plane trees have hung out their pom-poms to dry in the heat and leaves crackle their gentle death rattle in the caress of the air.
There is no clinging to the flush of each dawning because we are essentially dying into winter. Thus, in death, we can be fully present with the beauty.