Spring is movement, a quickening of the light, a steadying of muscles, a focus on what's coming. The energy has shifted again, palpable in the Chardonnay, already in budburst. The rain seems lighter, of shorter duration; it rolls in playfully bringing shimmer of rainbow amidst streaks of silvered light. Hatches of insects suspend like roiling clouds, enticing little birds. In the Marri’s canopy, the white tail black cockatoos ravish the honky nuts. And a very big surf growls a deep mantra, laced with an occasional crescendo roar of amen.
I go on weed-pulling jaunts. “Drop and give me twenty.” And then I push for perhaps a dozen more. Easier to remove them now, although they are already established. Their roots extend deeply, each variety a different form, a different level of resilience. The fullness of radish contrasts with the wiry spread of sorrel, and the milky spike of thistle differs thoroughly from the deep strength of dock that pulls back. There are grubs and beetles and a few toads hiding in their embrace. And then I’m crouched on my knees, reluctantly performing my ongoing kikuyu duty, the vineyard version of jury duty. Following the runners with fingers and hands that daily grow stronger. My back, however, needs to relearn how to straighten.
Virtually every cutting I planted is in leaf. I wonder if they are rooting, but won’t disturb them yet to find out. I’m replanting like crazy now, with the ground drying and the return of the warmth and the light – this is the enchanted moment. The mulch is generous with worms and grubs and spiders and beetles and strands of fungus. Here and there a mushroom dots the terrain. It’s the forest floor.
The Chardonnay is in full budburst and along with the first leaves, some berries are beginning to appear. Transformed from bare canes to baby green in a matter of a few warm days, they an awakened presence now. Pruning finished only yesterday and the vines just refuse to remain bare, they simply will no longer wait. I’m energized by the sight and feel of it, practically running up and down every row, examining the perfect baby leaves unfolding with green and reddish tints, remarking the first miniature grape bunches with teeny little berries emerging. The vines are in motion, headed on an inevitable trajectory leading to grapes. This is the magic.
I liberate a bunch of fifty cuttings from the nursery. Some are in bud, but none have calloused. I go to the uppermost chardonnay block, planted last year and begin replacing dead plants with these new ones. Occasionally I knock a bud off and wonder am I dooming the vine in the act of planting it? The rain sweeps by and moves past and the sun streaks in, and for a moment the whole vineyard is illuminated in springlight.
