In the vats the monster shakes off the sugars and procreates the grade.
The skins thicken at the edges, the polyphenols overcome, the tannic infantry emerges from the stalks as if from the trenches.
The amphorae transpire: they have inflated the terracotta belly for the lethargy of the grapes.
The air sifts the presses lined up under the path of the spiders and slips away to oxygenate the barrels.
A bubbler whistles in the appendix, the stillness inflows from the fiberglass minaret.
While the equinox folds the carapace of light, the elves in the corners of the cellar consecrate themselves to indigenous yeasts.