The tracks of the tractors screeching in the distance
just far enough away to appear sweet
as evening falls over the Piomba Valley.
The lights of Città Sant’Angelo illuminate
like a stage
above the hill.
The air refreshes and reverberates
in the woods of licorice
that are under
the olive groves
which are above
they are waiting for us, here we come!
The crickets, the badgers and the frogs know
that such peace is but a prelude.
There will fly boxes and scissors and cries,
the whirlwind of people and must and sandwiches
Tomorrow. It will be tomorrow.
This is our night:
the night before
the grape harvest.