On a grey morning, Provençale fields are barren and brown.  | 
| The cuts into the hillside are also brown and lifeless. | 
Some fields spring eternal with dustings of greenery.  | 
| While Fall leaves hang on tightly, | 
Some without success.  | 
| Undressed vines unprotected from the elements. | 
| And trees stripped and beheaded, waiting for the salvation of Spring. | 
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