Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

Wild bird,
wild turkey
your call came suddenly, surprisingly,
here, this summer morning.

Your turkey sound wobbled from among the weeds,
beside the lake.
Summer weeds, waving and whispering on the shore,
creeping to meet lily pads, then melding somehow to go beneath
to where I cannot see.

Wild bird,
I saw you yesterday, walking through the yard,
slow and hesitant, one foot placed, the other poised for moment
upon moment.
Your round eye fixed upon some creature’s movement, imagined or not,
before you move again,
your body undulating in that slow progression.

The water’s movement now
reminds me of your halting journey then.
The difference is, your movement then showed a painful hesitation,
and the water’s movement now speaks softly
it’s certainty of place.

Nevertheless, wild bird,
here, among the weeds this morning, I think your hesitation’s gone.
You know, don’t you?  You belong.
Your call has purpose, I’m convinced.

One call, then you are silent, listening like me.
your ear and mine, together,
I hear the weeds, I hear the leaves,
I hear the water gurgle here and there.
That’s just the wind, I hear the wind.
What do you hear, wild turkey?