All at the End of Mid-Evening

by Jack Daw

Now what?
Fluff the pillow?
Open the window,
let the cold air in?
Turn off the TV?
Turn on the radio?
Listen to what?
Beethoven, Vaughn Williams?
Turn off the radio? Read?
Read what?
Who?
Weldon Kees? Sharon Olds?
Who?
Billy Collins? John Grisham?
Stephen King? So many
questions.

Do what?
Dream?
Dream what? I saw two men
lug a fishing shack
out onto the lake this morning.
Dream what?
Dream of reading Weldon Kees
in a fishing shack on the ice?
Dream what?

Yesterday,
on a long drive, I saw twelve
wild turkeys in a field
moving fast
toward the road, their shiny necks thrust
straight out. What a strange thing that was.
Almost beautiful. Almost surreal. I'd never seen
twelve wild turkeys all at the same time before.
I'd seen only one,
or two. But there they were.
Twelve. Moving as one.
And while I watched them, as I drove by,
I wondered what the proper word would be Flock? A flock
of wild turkeys? After all, it's a "murder of crows," and a
"bevy" of quail, a "murmurration" of starlings.
I thought I should look it up
when I got home. I thought I should know for sure.

Dream what?
Dream of twelve wild turkeys on a suicide run
toward the road? I dreamt something else last night.
I don't remember what, with certainty.
Something about sex.

And there, now, is the night, in earnest.
A few lights on the tall hill,
and the night, and the snow,
which has been swallowed by the night.
And, because I've turned off the TV,
and turned on the radio,
music, too.
Shostakovich. One of his
lesser pieces. Better to hear
Credence Clearwater Revival.
Better to hear Bob Dylan, AC DC.
I turn off the radio,
am intimidated by the sudden silence
turn the radio on again,
turn it off, listen to the damned hum
of the computer, listen to the whine
of the furnace. Dream what?

Dream what?
If I hear a slow snuffle beyond the window
in the darkness (as I did in summer)
I'll dream of bears tonight, early.
And sex later.
It is, in fact, "flock." A flock of wild turkeys
on a suicide run
toward the highway
in winter
under an ashen sky.

© Jack Daw, 2004

Jack Daw, who describes himself as "A man of many words," lives comfortably in a refurbished castle ("Small," says Jack, "but still devilishly haunted!") in North Ireland with, yes, several wild turkeys and his step-daughter, Irene, who describes her stepfather as "passing strange, but interesting, anyway. Most of the time." Jack's been writing practically all of his life, but is just now starting to "show it to the world."