I was sidetracked by the need for a clear radio station
and it was raining, the roads were slick
and though I had half an eye for deer or moose,
I wasn’t expecting wild turkey.
Thus the squeal of brakes,
the thumping, a burst of feathers,
brown body slumping to the side of the road,
its tiny head reverberating like a punch bag,
beak wide open and screeching.
She stumbled into thick wet brush
and I followed,
guided by her gobble gobble,
through the trees,
by a small pond
where, in a shallow dirt depression,
half-hidden by reeds,
four nervous poults squeezed together
in an attempt to be one large something.
Then her soft steps led to a torn
with impressive flopping red wattles,
the father of her brood.
They stroked heads together,
gently preened each other’s necks.
And, from there, I followed her up a hill,
as the clouds finally parted,
and sunlight engraved the billowing seedy green
where other turkeys fed,
their mottled brown plumage
gilded and a-flutter.
This was all I had stolen from her,
with one wheel cracking a yellow leg,
another splitting a chest in two.
She was a corpse in a drainage ditch.
I was a man on an unexpected journey.
