The Vineyard and the St. Bernard

 My husband and I walked through the vineyard above lake Geneva. The water below matched the blue of the cloudless sky.

 

The Jura Mountains and France were on the other side of the lake, and I remembered how someone told me it took a drop of water 11 years to cross the lake.

The sun warmed our cheeks, but every so often the whisper of the wind reminded us it was October and winter was coming.

A week ago the vineyard had been full of workers for the vendage, their wicker baskets worn like backpacks. Those grapes were now in huge vats somewhere nearby for the first pressing.

The leaves of the vines, which were slightly taller than I was but not as tall as my husband, were beginning to yellow at the edges. A few bunches of grapes were left on the lower leaves.

"Because they are left, we can pick those," I said to my husband who was still new to Switzerland. I plucked two grapes from a bunch.

Although we thought we were alone, a St. Bernard, a stereotype of my country, bounded up, followed by this master.

We patted the dog who ambled over to the grape bunch we had just picked and lifted his leg.