Wild Turkey in the Rain

Ben Howard

His wattle drips like tallow down
his neck. His head, a wet
shaft of ash, protrudes

above the reeds. His eye
looks back across the lake, as though
his enemy were water. Breast

erect, his feathers lie
like strata, each a ledge
over which a stream

is plunging. Now he swells
his lungs, thrusts out
his sides in a soft

explosion. Splinters and bits
of bark fly out and flames
shoot up behind him, spreading across

the leaves, the moist
branches and piles
of stones. The shallow pools
ripple; his feathers close.