It’s about boot heels for metronomes tonight,
the out of tune guitar grinning on the upstroke
is our Harvest, is our reveling
in daybreak frost never coming—

can be
warded off
by rosy cheeks
a two-step
a whisky breakdown—

Not yet, not yet

Drinking off cold to keep a rhythm
in step with Michigan months
shifting to auburn tones
like old-fashioned photographs.

Until ***** hounds trickle into blankets,
incubate into hangovers
thrown on living room couches,
floors, acres,

The cuddled up crop
of our Harvest Gathering.