The Wild Turkey

by James Tate

I was standing at the kitchen sink washing
a few dishes, when I hear this knocking at my door.
I looked out the window, but there was no one there.
But the knocking continued.  I looked down, and there
was this wild turkey staring at me.  He must have been
about four feet tall, and he was looking right into
my eyes.  Then he pecked at my door again, and I
instinctively opened it. He walked into the middle
of the room and said, “Gobble gobble gobble.” I poured
him a bowl of dry cereal and another bowl of water.
He tried the cereal and seemed to like it.  He’d take
four or five bites, and then wash it all down with a
couple of sips of water. Then he’d look up at me
with his blue head and his red and white mottled neck.
He finished the cereal, then flapped his great wings
as if to thank me. His green iridescent feathers
glazed the room in a magical light.  I walked into
the living room, and he followed me.  I sat down in my
chair, and he leapt up on the back of the couch.  He had
the meekest, almost beseeching eyes, that seemed to
say, “Whatever you want to do next is fine by me.
I’m your guest, after all, and we’ve only just met,
though I feel like I’ve known you for a lifetime,
old friend, new friend, good friend.” “Gobble gobble
gobble,” I said.  He didn’t reply, but turned his head
away and stared at the TV, which was off.  We sat there
in silence for a good long time.  Sometimes our eyes
met, and we’d wander down those ancient hallways, a
little afraid, a little in awe.  And then we’d turn away
having reached a locked door.  He studied the room, too,
for any clue, but it must have seemed so alien,
the beautiful vases and bowls, the paintings, scraps
of a lost civilization.  Hours passed like this.  I felt
an immense calm within me.  We were sleeping in a tree
on an island in an unknown land.

–Read at St. Lydia’s on November 28