On a thick branch of the vineyard, Palmon lies on her side, as if the tree had learned the exact shape needed to hold her. The trunk does not creak. The leaves are not in a hurry. The grapes hang heavy, ripening at their own pace 🍇🌿.

Palmon is not watching over the crop. Nor resting after work.

She is there.

One leg hangs in the air. The other rests without tension. One hand disappears among the leaves—not to touch them, but because that is simply the most comfortable place to leave it. Her body does not seek balance: it trusts the tree to provide it.

It is an economy of attention.

When you pass nearby, nothing changes at first. The vineyard keeps breathing. The air moves slowly. Then, almost by coincidence, Palmon closes one eye and gives a wink as she notices you.

The grapes sway just slightly, brushing against one another with a soft sound. There is sunlight, but no pressing heat. There is time, but no pressure.

“Mmm. They’re still growing.”