Thanksgiving

 

Moments are the fat, cooked bird

dined round the family table

wild dna spread over time

then clocked and dressed, disabled.

I am the wing man of the hour

mother white meat breast

father of the leg bones

with me

dark meat is the best.

Sisters are the giblets

gravy is the peace

keeps us all around the table

rich table cloth of dreams.

When the meal is over

good thanks be given go

everyone has their own room

leftover freezer zones.

Moments seldom find me now

I sandwich meat and run

saw a wild bird yesterday

asked her out to lunch.

Rocked her through the afternoon

wings were wide, surprised

her breast was warm and glorious

as well her legs and thighs.

I thought maybe a moment

about cool rooms and more

but left her in the woods to run

packed gun, slogged on back home.

Next time I went hunting

saw her once again

glorious with feathers red

sun glints, then shade, dark bed.

She really needs to be more wild

I shot above her head

she scattered to the deeper woods

I hit the bar instead.