Westwood Estates, 2017 Sonoma County Pinot Noir

Music in Taste Arrangement

An odd rhythm, and not off-putting.  Caught in her shy and rushing rationale, from first sensed contact.  Pushing deduction aside for obsession.  Not at all the template nouvelle Burgundy lesson.  New truth movement.  Imbued in a due new set.  Residence redolence each time I lift the glass, bring closer, feel played insinuation in her oration.  Consideration of life scenes, all oscillation in between and wildness of identity.  Containment but nothing withheld or muted.  Westwood, a winery I know little about and am now only getting to know and fall into her character study, shown and told something in this bottle, about us living wine and maybe writing about it time to time.

And with the current affairs state, in home, how having opportunity to acquaint characters like these, with beauteous angles and atmosphere in all turns, from the placement of anything fruit or spice, terroir or oak-told, I’m not caring as much.  This bottle has that power, to liberate, to take me away from any quarantine… meant-madness, for me here at the desk typing.  Everything from the equipoise of nose to evenness and animation of palate, I’m shoved to more scribbles.

Second glass, and I notice in me more eagerness to learn, be instructed on Burgundy’s pedagogy and passion extending from Dijon blocks to Sonoma County’s valley’s and fog-coated extending hills and little inlets.  The bottle and its pace had me inextricable traversing my own understandings of Pinot, and the County, and since I don’t know this label that well I’m now bewildered and bewitched, smitten even.  And I feel I’d be that way even if there were more principle familiarity.

The music of her shape and voice is in the momentary moment-meaning of it her course and force, and newly sent chords.  Letting her sit on the counter, develop or open or whatever she wants to do , more message and compounded thesis to her sexual stasis.  More than whirled or wooed, more than kept and sung some chant.  This vixen carried holistic haunts of a redolent Pinot pulse and beat.  More than mad, more than love, a letter, newly licked epistle.  Sent to me, this night, for this page, from her song.

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