Winter in Percussina

Each morning we step outside a little earlier now, and the clock tells us we’re back inside a little later in the evening. Fog settles low across the fields, topped with an off-white frost in the early morning, both loosening only when the sun offers just enough warmth. The olive trees stand still, and the vines hold the shape of last year’s growth, sitting bare, ready for pruning — la potatura.

While the days are still short, at least they are no longer shrinking.

From the house, winter skies and bare branches draw the land in around us. Paths are walked with purpose, from one place to the next, to gather, tend, and prepare for green’s return. The fields lie plowed, ready for winter wheat and chickpeas — i ceci. Down in the old quarry, rainwater gathers again, and a pair of mallards have returned for their annual visit, settling as always on the small ponds.

Winter demands attention and precision. The scent of woodsmoke drifts across the fields, drawing us back indoors to settle alongside its warmth — coats set aside, hands now warmed. With less daylight, we work deliberately, shaping and strengthening La Pia — work meant for what comes next.

While we work, we also wait, as the light slowly returns.