I do so dislike the wind, especially the March winds. March is the peak of pruning season. It is so wonderful to be back out in the vineyard full time and without interruption. But I have to admit that the fierce, biting winds of the last several weeks has taken some of the pleasure out of pruning.

The sounds of silence are washed away by a freight train roar constantly at your back. On a calm day we are amused by the unending bickering of Canada geese ritually staking out their territorial clams on the pond. We are awed by the power of a V flock flying close overhead as wings in unison stir the air with a rhythmic swoosh. We’ve learned to identify birds of prey by their lonely and forlorn distant screeches. In the early morning, ridiculous sounding turkey gobbling echoes off the ridges. And then there are the peepers.

The wind washes all this away. We feel cheated as we hunch down to make ourselves small against the blow. Our observations realign into the visual rather than the auditory. The loamy soil has become soft and as friable as a souffle after a winter of much freezing and thawing. Surface rocks have been washed and are quite brilliant and distinct. Tiny white flowers are blooming from a plant that I must key in and id when I get back to the office. So much going on.