The woods beyond the old stone walls
lot-by-lot scraped flat
for curving streets and backyard pools.
We see more of fox, deer, bear.
Today, a band of wild turkeys
strolls across a landscaped lawn
as though at a garden party.
A morning walker kneels,
whispers calmness to his yellow lab,
who barks and strains at his leash.
The turkeys do not falter.
They strut closer,
closer
toward sidewalk, man, dog,
and when the man moves
to take a photo, they flare
and still press forward,
all black and copper fret and glare.
Dark pinion feathers scrape fresh pavement.
They make a fricative hiss
as they approach.
This poem first appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly.
—
Jennifer L Freed is the author of When Light Shifts, a 2022 finalist for the Sheila Margaret Motton Book Prize. Her poems have appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, BODY, Rust and Moth and other journals, and have been nominated for Best of the Net, The Pushcart Prize, and the Orison Anthology.
