after Edward Hirsch

Some mornings when 

he wakes, after sleep 

     sleep has wounded him

into wildness, he smiles

     saying, “Let’s not

talk about any of it

     or climate change or

non-native species and just…

     turkeys in snow…”

the morning so quiet he could

     hear their quirtle and chirr

while they scratched, their ridiculous

     beards nearly kissing

the snow, feathers distinguishing

     what is bird and not,

much the way I imagine

     Jeoffry and Zooey or even

my own well-loved cat

     will speculate his way into

dark corners trusting

     his whiskers will know

his reach, what he

     may safely return from—the slim

difference between nearly

through and not. His toes

     cringe at the carpet’s edge

before the sea of green

     tile, cracked like old anger,

brittle as shell after twenty years

     of shame, but the turkeys

and beyond them

     mallards and swans. No.

Snow geese, mergansers.