Crush Pad

Over the last three months I've been working a 'crush' -- a harvest -- for a winery near the coast in Sonoma County, camping on my buddy Jeff's property among the coyotes and the coyote brush, and hence been too beat or too out of internet range to post anything. But here is a little poem that gives, I hope, a sense of the long hours on the crush pad.


Sunday



The women at the sorting tables             

shift from leg to leg

as
  
   cumbia plays

on a radio tucked                                  

into the big one's blouse,                      

hands spiraling in grapes.                                  
                                                               

A quick laugh, a glance

at the white bins

dense with fruit.



If you go fast            
   you can go                                           
  
in the grass                                        
behind the dumpster.  



A bite of sandwich, a sip

of coffee,



another quarter ton 

    tilted from the forks,                     

straining juice into the hopper.


Every second counts                

when you lean back

in the worn seat, search

past the roll cage 



to pine trees
  
   in gold light

over the vineyard,

cirrus clouds

shiftless on an ocean breeze.