Dona Rosa set the table before she called us, then sat inside with the radio while we ate. The jug was water. The wine came later, and so did she.

Every afternoon, until the shade reached the door.

The room we rented had one window and the shutters didn't close, so we woke with the sun every day for two weeks. On the last morning I set the camera on the sill and waited for the light to reach the village on the hill. Monsaraz, I think, though the woman downstairs called it something else.

Stripped three summers ago. The bark takes nine years to grow back, and the man who owns the field says he won't see the next harvest from this one.

Before six. The fog leaves at nine.