Blessed be the Turkeys
I watch the turkeys slowly pacing,
Old men bending down to take their
Closer looks at things they find. They
Seem at peace. Perhaps they're dining.
If they are, they do so out of earshot
Of what vexes me: the children who are
Back again, sewing chaos, making
Noise. They're never gone for very
Long, and there's no way I wholly can
Escape them, though I can get lost
When I look out the window at those
Placid, plodding birds.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck

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Written on 2025-02-01 at 23:51



