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Wild Turkey, part 2

May 10, 2010

I almost saw a wild turkey this weekend. Yes, a wild turkey like this (or somewhat like this, or who knows what actual wild turkeys really resemble, but I’d like to imagine they look exactly like this):

We came upon an abandoned wild turkey nest with about 6 eggs, lying right on our path in Rondeau. Who knows when the turkey had last been there — a day ago? two? a week? Or was the turkey lurking behind us, watching closely and laughing her little head off? I guess I’ll never know. But it sure was great to see what the would-be progeny of a fabulous wild turkey looked like. The whole experience made me think of a poem by Wislawa Szymborska about the beauty and magic of life and of, ultimately, not knowing.

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;

to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain
from everything it’s not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;

and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another

mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;

and to keep on not knowing
something important.

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