The turkeys, unskilled at flight,
gather before the iron gate,
attracted by the rising sun
on the other side, the tender green
of grass shot through with light.

They hesitate, not knowing
how to breach the great divide—
ungainly birds, evolved to run across life’s stage
on chicken feet, like anxious ballerinas
fretting about their weight.

And yet one rises up, defying gravity—
balances with outstretched, backlit wings
for a moment or two on iron points,
then takes the plunge through empty air
to the meadow where the grass looks greener.

One at a time and sometimes two by two,
the other turkeys follow—
leaping, stretching, landing
and scurrying away
like a chorus of swans in white tulle,

Till the whole flock has crossed over and run away,
and all that’s left is the gate bedecked with dew.

© by Barbara Quick.
Used with the author’s permission.