"When we left the tumult and compression of the city for this place, it seemed we were moving from communality to solitude. But we'd had it backwards. Now even the dead commune with us, in dreams, in the wind, in the moon's travel, in fragments of words to be crafted into song, or work, or wine, in the talk of those we work beside or those who listen to us, as we work, while they, too, make the small adjustments, move rhythmically down the rows, lay things out in order, stopping, now and then, to hear the music swell from the old barn, cross the creek, and rise up the hillside to the vineyard." - Peter Bacon Hales