An ode to harvest from our good friend Don

Sky harvests are lived through sounds
noises and music.
Idle chat across a long row of zin,
this one is a tree doctor,
this one a Serbian  nuclear physicist refugee.
Dusty pickup trucks whiz by with water
loaded with grapes.
Generators.
Whirring stemmers rip fruit from stalk.
Rotating engines,
Hosed water smacks dirty yellow containers now yellow again.
Laughter, insult, laughter, gossip, laughter,
guitar and more laughter.
The audible frequencies of work
Out of phase with daily lives,
Bridge across the years.
And then, when the poetry and beer run dry, you return to the house for supplies. Walking away from the winery, tipsy from sun and ingestible stuff, you turn a corner you’ve turned hundreds of times, stumble across a dry creek bed enveloped by manzanita, quince and California. you try not to trip — this beer run is mission critical. you look up,and they are walking no gliding at you, sweet smiles, carrying bowls in silence, like an offering in a greek epic. their quiet strikes you, as if they occupy some anti-noise space you forgot to learn about in college. Their bowls carry yeast — microscopic rabble rousers — the heavy metal fomenters of the fermenters. Mix this yeast with our laughter, sweat, earwigs, grapes
and years, and you’ll be surprised what you get: Lubrication for future harvests not yet scheduled — beyond fires and babies and forlorn baseball seasons. Their sly grins tell you the secret only they must know — that in their hands they carry generations of
drunken stories and sloppy hookups. The bridge of noise in bowls in silence in noise in mountain in years in wine…
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