It's pretty silly, I suppose, to be trapped in one's house by a turkey,
but more than once lately, that's what has happened here.
To the east of the house a gobbler will appear over the brow of the hill,
often by the old leaning tree, his tail fanned into a perfect arch,
his feathers displaying their iridescent sheen in the sunlight.
He takes mincing steps,
his eyes trained on the hens for whom his display is intended,
and who, as usual, ignore him.
We watch, fascinated again by the scene we've witnessed so often.
Sooner or later, however, one has to leave the house.
It might be easy to slip out the back.
Well no, actually, the deer are browsing on the west side of the house,
and we'd hate to disturb them.
So, up goes the garage door; there's a gobble, then strong wing flaps.
The turkeys clear the trees sail away.
They'll be back soon enough,
amazing us with their beauty.
amazing us with their beauty.
and in the meantime, we're going to revel in our brief freedom.
