Wine tastes best near dusk
while seated on the roof
of a van in a wet-grass
field in Massachusetts,

wearing dusty jeans, hiking boots,
and a homemade tie-died t-shirt,

as a silent lightning storm
blooms gray above an ever-
green treeline.

And the only sounds are murmurs
of dealers, the zip of tent flaps,
and the occasional pounding of
stakes as weary men and women
rig their sail-like blue plastic tarps.

And your uncle and cousin — who are
your father and sister — are sitting nearby,
their legs dangling down the sides
of the van, their hands wrapped
around red plastic cups.