Heavy gray clouds battle for control of the supple trees,

which bend under the will of the wind,

leaves whipping and flickering their bright undersides,

like the dresses of frantic Spanish dancers;

pale pulp squishes between her toes,

the grapes bursting under the weight of

eighteen-year-old feet - both the fruit

and the flesh are soft and ripe

and smell of sugar in the sun;

the gray sea licks wildly at the gravelly shore,

while her fire-red locks twist and tangle in the wind.