The Three That Came to Promontory
This poem celebrates the art and patience of winemaking through the eyes of three birds (the Vulture, the Crow, and the Woodpecker) who observe Napa’s vineyards. It weaves a poetic connection between nature and craft, showing how time, care, and attention give both wine and wings their true beauty.
In dawn’s hush, where mists unfold
And Napa’s breath, both crisp and bold,
Climbs slow through Oakville’s gentle air,
A fountain dreams in silence rare,
Promontory, where stone meets sky,
A vineyard’s soul, both low and high.
There, as morning curls in light,
Three silhouettes descend from flight:
First came the Vulture, dusk’s old sage,
Weathered wing and wrinkled page,
A watcher born of carrion lore,
Who’d seen the hills in mythic yore.
He perched upon the marble rim,
As still as time, austere and grim.
But in his eye, a ghostly glint,
He knew the labor, felt the stint,
Of winemakers who dare delay,
And let the grape go long its way.
Next fell the Crow in whirl of grace,
Like justice drawn in feathered lace.
Her cry, a clarion keen and grand,
Stirred the leaves across the land.
She struck the air with queenly poise,
Born of hunt, but not of noise.
To cask and barrel she did stare,
The vineyard’s edge, the vintner’s prayer.
She saw in rows of Cabernet
The crowish art of bold delay:
Of choosing not with haste but thought,
Of letting flavor ferment what’s sought.
Then came the Woodpecker, bright and brash,
With crown of red and wings that flash.
He tapped the lip of granite clear,
A rhythmed ode the hills could hear.
He spoke of toil in mottled drum,
Of trees he shaped and song he’d strum.
And so he found in this domain
A craft akin to wood and grain.
As coopers cut and oaks give way,
So wine is carved from light and clay.
Three birds, three truths, three forms of flight,
Each touched the fountain’s marble black and white.
Not drawn by thirst nor need to feed,
But by the stillness of the creed:
That wine, like wings, must earn its span,
By waiting long within the hand.
By tending root and gauging sun,
And knowing when the hour is done.
Promontory, domain divine,
Heard their message in its vine.
Where vintage sleeps in barrel round,
And silence is the truest sound,
The Vulture, Hawk, and Pecker bold,
Left feathered marks, like myths retold.
And though they flew ere dusk had laid,
Its amber hush across the glade,
Their tale remains in vineyard lore,
Of patience, art, and something more:
That nature kneels when craft is pure,
And timeless wine, like wings, endure.
By Thomas Célérier
