Wild Turkey in the Rain

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.