Winding our way through terraced wine groves and cork-trees,
a fleeting glimpse of this other form of life
from behind protective glass of course.
Gazing down on the rows of yellow flecked scrub
baking
and to our right, white capped hills:
each windmill like a toy set down by giant children
as they knelt to pick the wild flowers,
the meadows’ sparkling teeth.
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Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
I like the “w’s”. Don’t forget about your tag, Mr. Mr. You’re not off the hook. 🙂