This flock has flown

Every four feet,

another vine.

As I prepare to bend,

I clinch.

Pain strikes the knees,

as I drop roughly

straight down.

…

The vines are cut, stripped,

scraped and scarred

by pruning shears.

…

The pain is shared,

though, no human is in sight

to share it with.

…

The vines and me.

Alone.

For hours…

Days even.

…

But from the woods…

suddenly

*fshew*

flies by.

*fshew*…

another…

a small bird.

Curiosity envelopes,

and relief from my duties is granted

as I endulge in the mystery

which has brought new faces

into the vineyard so suddenly.

…

More appear from the shallow depths of the tree line…

Zoom!

I duck,

as one jets

barely over my head…

…

Their destination is North,

just like the geese last week.

…

Between short bursts of flight

they begin to settle into the vines

for a brief respite.

…

Slowly,

I begin to lift my hand.

Raising my ground-facing palm,

I point my finger

up and out like a twig.

Unsteady,

I secure my finger with my thumb…

This is the place

for a bird to land.

…

A bird swoops by.

I begin to relax my shoulders,

becoming ever more welcoming.

*fshew*

There goes another.

I turn my focus to nothing in particular,

expecting to appear more like a tree…

Patience.

I wait a while longer.

*fshew*

Finger outstretched,

focused on nothing,

perfectly still,

heart pounding,

I stare into space.

Nothing.

Patience more…

but silence

and the passing of time reveals

that the flock of birds has flown.

Their brief stay is gone.

…

Focusing my eyes back down

to the next vine,

I cringe.

Dropping to my knees

I continue hard labor,

but with renewed vigor,

as I dote appreciatively on

about such great migrations.

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