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Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Turkeys

The turkeys cross
the fish road
one at a time
claiming the air
for the short jump
and then they gather
beneath the trees
to search for seed
the leftovers of a thousand deer
and squirrels
who still think
there might be apple up high
they've milled around
outside the south window
not knowing they were watched
and my lips tremble
as they believe in their freedom
their lack of responsibility
without really knowing what they have
on a cold day
And I am behind glass
just enough of a barrier
from the world
feeling ever so frightened
of what is really out there
and knowing it will come for me
one day
that something beyond the glass
without a name or shame
so what if my hand stops my lip
it can't stop the deep shake
that brings me the depth of a browline
and the tightening of my throat
not that I had anything to say out loud
not that I had anything



copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G. Wick

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