Wild
by Evan Harrison
Had I been far enough
away not to hear their steps,
I’d have no memory,
of fading:
in fogged twilight
turkeys had flowered
in a death parade. Strangely,
after two weeks of living there,
this was our first meeting.
I held a credit card offer,
late Christmas cards,
and guaranteed savings—so much of this world
by the mailbox.
That world,
pierced by narrow trees
in the adjacent vacant lot,
closed to me—
the turkey procession slower
than the quitting light, their bodies
rounder than winter and dark
as road. They moved, heavy
and somber, full of mist and order,
from and to some place
that God forgot
while giving man dominion.
