I'm traveling thru upstate New York right now, enroute from Toronto to Rochester and points beyond. It is mid May and in California the days are warm and the evenings still chilly, not yet the idle days of summers when boys play with their puppies in streambeds and bring home salamanders to their moms, but warm enough that the heat of the midafternoon soaks deep into the chest and thaws the last splinter of ice packed deep into your breathing through the cold, wet winter days. In California, budbreak has already set and the vineyard managers are starting their first pruning and watching closely for flower set and the first indication of the strength of the harvest. The head cordon grenache pictured above was from May's beginning, two weeks ago and a bit. So far so good so far, is all a farmer will admit to the fates.

In New York it looks as if the frayed threads of winter's corpse have just blown off and the trees are shaking out their leaves, finally! A stiff and steady wind blows past my window, remnants of a passing storm, a steady thumping that encourages the trees and bushes to grip their toes harder, rasping more dirt and rocks just to hang on. The vineyards I passed on my way look tentative, not as willing to put out its tender knobby green tufts and trust that the ice and snow are fully gone. More sun, more rays, more comeraderie from the trees and bushes, more new grass brushing at its ankles, more blue luminescent skies, more kilocalories, more coaxing, more life!

I wonder do the boys and puppies wait just as patiently?