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.