The frozen meadow
is a hard, shag carpet.
The creek is solid white.
Seven wild turkeys
arrayed in a
gobbling skirmish line
pick their way
carefully across it.
I stand silently
on the frozen deck
in my bare feet
and watch.
The algid world
contains us all,
no exceptions.
Strutting fowl,
the flaneur
who watches,
no one escapes
this brumal vista.
The god of heaven
is simultaneously
the god of phenomena:

Skepsis slips away
when your toes
are cold.




©Photo credit: Spring Creek Valley 2008. Author