Steven says the heron is hunting frogs.
We see it in our newly mowed field some distance away,
while we pick the last of the grapes from this
late harvest in the vineyard.
The graceful bird pecks earth, its long neck arched,
as we pluck the tight bundles of Marquette grapes from brittle vines.
All of us here together under a warm morning sun, fowl and folk alike,
bent to the task.
Later, I watch as my brother-in-law and brother take the last of the
grape husks to the compost pile, across the same wide field,
the heron long gone.
Pete stands on the back of the tractor, while Jeffrey drives.
I pause, concentrating, hoping the white of Pete’s t-shirt and the
green of the tractor, glowing under a setting sun, burns into my memory.
It seems the earth all around them is on fire, blazing red and orange.
Later, we do build a fire, a telescope shows us moons around Jupiter,
Québécois and English weave conversation in cold air, as we watch our breath form in
ephemeral puffs of white.
Wine flows and food comes out from the oven in bucket sized portions.
There is cheese and sausage on cutting boards, French bread, and pork.
Cousin Paul finds an 80’s mix on the radio and we dance.
God is here,
Spirit does not waver,
we are everlasting.
We laugh, we love, we tease each other, we work, and all is good.
Our bellies full and bodies tired from this day’s work,
we will sleep and dream under Jupiter’s moons,
under a star-filled sky.
An intelligence beating there, just under the surface.
Just under everything.