Until Nine

They named two days for the slope. This is the second.

Hand-picked already— twenty-seven hundred kilos, table grapes and Modrý Portugal— gone to the tanks where burčák is still working.

The rows keep last night's cool. Slight rain on the leaves. Fifteen at eight. Sunset gone to twenty-one past seven.

Gates open at nine. Until then the vineyard holds only air and the hour, Prague small under Troja.