The Wild Turkeys

At the window I count the wild turkeys

feeding near my uncle’s open pond.

Four, five, no six are now pecking

or raising their crooked necks.

I look into the pond and scan the

reflection for some revelation—

nothing except fuzzy tops of pine

and a slender streak silver gray sky.

I think the pond needs to be repositioned

so I consider where I am in the world

The road runs east-west, the mountains behind.

The pond must be southwest. It’s near

the end of winter, mid-afternoon,

there ought to have been some

indication of sun. My uncle says these

birds prefer the newest shoots of grass

and that he’s surprised that the coyotes

leave the wild turleys alone.