At the end of the Zinfandel Trail,
after the gulch with the deep-throated creek
and tall interlaced black oak trunks
cresting their canopy,
after the winding path
of red earth that dives into
a tunnel of greenery
and opens into the succulent field
of fresh moist grass
speckled with dainty yellow primrose,
after the pond where madrona branches
dip their fingers,
and the migrating ducks—
with their emerald mating neck feathers—
splash with abandon,
after the lone deer
that startled and showed
its downy fanning ears
before leaping back
into his forested home—
after all that:
the flock of wild turkeys.
Not a single timid bird
blending with dried branches,
but a dozen of you,
a small battalion.
In your stripped feathered armor,
I recognized
the headgear of warriors.
In your noble purple necks,
scarlet snoods and wattles—
the hallowed regalia.
You walked,
owning the path, moving
with feathery confidence,
weighty birdiness,
the stride of a noble creature.
The ancient owner of the land,
the native animal—
more than the wild horse,
the fox,
and even the deer.
Never before had I witnessed
your majesty,
your panache,
your sobering beauty.
First Appeared in Ecological Citizen, Vol 8 No 2 2025,