Ode to Twelve Turkeys in a Field

Some amble, others trot

in a green square, maybe

rectangle, of sunlight, late-day,

almost evening, and using a soccer

goal’s orange netting as shelter

or maybe as touchstone. Air

as crisp as Florida allows it

to be. And I’m off a bit,

away from their notice—

forgot to turn the cart key

to “off,” so another light

is flashing, warm as that

square or rectangle, after a

while, anyway, and glowing.

I’m writing a nature poem, I think.

Something about something

colorful, something breezy

and wet under rocks untouched

for decades in the cool shade.

Something relatable, I think;

or at least knowable, I hope.

I look up from the notebook

I won in a poetry contest and

the 12 turkeys are gone, so I

drive away with the light still

on—warm, as always,

and moving too fast.

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