By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins Wet socks and all, we trudge the rows, black umbrellas breaking backwards like the battered wings of jackdaws in the winter. It’s early Fall, the grapes show signs of tartness still, but sugar’s on the rise. We chew the berries, macerate the skins between our purpling teeth, and test the seeds for tannins, before spitting out the soft purple masses on the thin, green strips of grass between the rows; on the ground, clusters dropped last week spackle the grass like tiny browning skeletons. …
