Working at the Distillery

Last summer, I rose 
before dawn, crept 
through the house still 
pregnant with sleep, 
pulled on tattered jeans,  
a stained sweatshirt, 
a baseball cap  
ragged with wear, 
grabbed my coffee and lunch 
from the fridge, and drove 
south to Watsonville 
to unload grapes 
in the early morning light. 
All day, I shoveled them 
into the destemmer, 
then into the juicer, 
the golden liquid 
sweeter than ambrosia. 
I filled tanks to ferment, 
piled the empty stems 
picked clean onto 
the compost heap, 
refilled the tank on the fork- 
lift, hid the keys, 
and followed the sun 
that had already set, 
chasing the low glow 
at the horizon  
as the stars came out, 
constellations 
I could hardly raise 
my eyes to see.