In synopsis: Concord grape vines here are reminiscent of a transcendentalist wine which with bittersweet’s berries now ripening into precipitants from above are vines that have turned a symbiosis into a parasitic struggle for this Eastern Red Cedar. A male ungulate, levitical, has begun his rub; bedding down, perhaps, amidst a sort of warren cover I’ve nearly destroyed with a contentious sugar of phosphorus. And this buck; to sleep, perchance to dream by the rub, as the mechanisms of triumph fade from utile. Aye, aloft, the hooting call of a great horned strigiform has loosened not this olden vintage, nor mistletoe; yet, bittersweet? Evidentiary pellets and scat suggest the roosting pair and the rub beneath therefore to be, or not to be, inference to another solstice season’s fecundity. This; as the season of the rut passes, and that of the fledge approaches; once again. Perhaps the future story of this cedar henge shall be a nest? Horned pair contemporaneous to a rack’s loosening? Yet, again; no mistletoe amidst this vintage’s passing sweet scent, and midst tangled berries; orange, sheathed in yellow. And the grapes; a perennial pentateuchal derivative yet to meet a future press? Perhaps then to distill further to a here aforementioned cognac essence of faiths as yet imperceptible? It is, of course, possible, when and if another spring’s sunshine’s glucose readies within them for fermentation and thence into a distillate of their concord essence proceeding towards our transcendence. And, of the rub? Who… may speak of a lofty ripening vintage o’er such detritus; littered with the evidence of vitality’s processions.