30 degrees under the sun. 10 degrees in the glass of Sauvignon Blanc. You’d like to retreat to the porch but the crickets don’t agree. Your steps take you down the alleys with neatly cut grass, you touch the chestnut wood from Bari that supports the vines and you fantasize about waking up at sunrise to hear the grapes grow. The parallel lines of Cabernet Franc counter the random play of the maturing grapes. Order and chaos. Lingering and exalted. You choose a favorite row, might be number 23, 56 or 8. You smell the rose at its end knowing you’ll always remember it.