bottle clank against wood,
my heart beats in unison-
as grapes press beneath the wheels
that carry my wife who carries
my child who squints at a
sliding sun overhead.
it is an indian summer this
october and the fermenting fields cry out,
erupting from the vine,
their sharp odor.
the conversations of chickens
flutter like old women gossips
who, over tea, pick apart the newest
plot of dirt.
i listen in.
it just might be a good year.
- Shirly Tagayuna
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