You look out over the terraced vineyards and olive groves
of Poci and you see and feel the years of cultivation
that brought them to their present fruition.
You feel the warmth of the summer sun drawing the juice
up into the grapes, and the nip of the winter frost
threatening the tender leaves of the olive trees,
the sporadic sputter of the tractor,
the whine of the weed whacker,
the rush of the river down by the old mill,
all are part of the harmonies of husbandry.