Winter again and we want
the same nocturnal rocking，
watching cedar spit
and sketch its leafy flames，
our rooms steamy with garlic
and greasy harvest stew.
Outside frosted windows
claw marks on yellow pine，
Venus wobbling in the sky，
the whole valley a glare of ice.
We gather in the kitchen
to make jam from damsons
and blue Italian prunes，
last fruit of the orchard，
sweetest after frost， frothy bushels
steeping in flecked enamel pots.
Michael， our neighbor，
decants black cherry wine，
fruit he ground two years ago，
bound with sugar， then racked
and racked again. It's young and dry.
We toast ourselves， our safety，
time the brandied savory
of late November.
I killed a man this day last year，
says Michael， while you were away.
Coming home from town alone，
you know the place in Lolo where the road
curves， where the herd of horses got loose
New Year's Eve， skidded around
white-eyed， cars sliding into them？
Didn't see the man until my windshield broke.
Could have been any one of us.
Twenty-nine years old， half-drunk，
half-frozen. Red and black hunting jacket.
Lucky I was sober. We stand there
plum-stained as Michael's face
fractures into tics and lines.
He strokes his wine red beard.
Michael with no family，
gentle farmer's hands， tilts the bottle，
pours a round， as if to toast.
It was so cold， he says，
that when it was over，
he swirls the distilled cherries
under a green lamp， there was less
blood on the pavement than you see
this moment in my glass.