Deer vs Vine

Casual encounters in the vineyard

They don’t leave a thank-you note. Just teeth marks. A row of vines, chewed clean like corn on the cob at a July picnic, except it’s spring, and I’m not laughing.

I’ve tried everything short of diplomacy—nets, sprays, powders that smell like the end of a garlic festival. The deer come anyway. They’re delicate, entitled. They eat the leaves, not the fruit. They know what not to touch.

This morning I walked the rows and saw something new: a few green shoots, trying again. Resilient, or maybe just oblivious. Either way, I respect it. The vines haven’t given up. The deer haven’t either. And I, for some reason, am still hoping for a truce.

I’m thinking of leaving an offering—just a few extra shoots, set aside like bread on the table for a ghost. Maybe they’ll take the hint. Maybe they’ll understand the deal: you can visit, but you don’t get everything.

There’s a cluster or two forming now, still intact. That feels like grace. Or restraint. Or luck

.