Another two rows . . .

. . . of the vineyard were weeded this morning. During my toiling about I came across a small bird caught in the netting that protects the grapes from poaching. Every once in a while a bird will manage to get on the inside of the net with full access to the mother lode of sweet grapes. But after it’s had its fill, it invariably cannot find its way back out. And it gets stuck in the net. The harder it struggles, the more entangled it becomes.

This particular bird had netting wrapped around its neck, body, and wings. Less than a foot away, a swarm of yellowjackets was devouring the carcass of another trapped bird. A scout was keeping tabs on the condition of this bird like a chef checking on a Thanksgiving turkey.

I walked back up the hill to get a pair of scissors. Gently holding the bird, I carefully snipped away at the net, freeing him at last to go about his life.

Killing weeds, saving birds. In my vineyard, I make the decisions. Well, most of them, anyway.