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Just pruned the last of the Cascade vines
The sun was low, and the air smelled like wet earth and old wire. I stood there with the secateurs in one hand, the other resting on the fence postāsame one my father used to lean on when heād come back from the fields. The kid who took over the farm said she wanted to keep the old way, so I didnāt tell her about the new trellising system Iād been meaning to suggest. Let her learn it slow. The vines are still green at the tips, but the buds are closing. Winterās coming, even if weāre not ready.
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