Talking Turkey

“Some wild turkeys that reside in urban areas have become acclimated to humans, which can create problems.” – Minnesota Department of Natural Resources

We were the turkeys who woke her each morning. We began a half hour before daybreak. Our gobbles weren’t meant for her, but she was the sensitive type. Apparently the woman could not just ignore a chorus of them every two minutes. After fly down, my tom and I would come up from the ravine and wander around the complex, perfecting our performance. He was in charge; he was always in charge. I was the younger brother, the jake. The wingman, you might say. By daylight we’d see her emerge from her second floor roost onto the balcony in her bathrobe, groggy, cup in hand. There she would seem to doze off, but when we’d gobble beneath that balcony, her head would jerk right up. My tom was not species-curious, and would push on toward other conquests. By then a few other jakes would have joined his entourage, and when I lagged behind, it was not noticed. I was getting a little tired of subordination, frankly. Of being dragged around by the snood. I began to tell myself only my gobble could revive her, and mine alone. That someday I would roost with her. That she would call me Prince, or Romeo.

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Church Food Shelf Duplex

Minneapolis, January 10, 2026

The beloved community gathers:
Young and raw my return to the fold.

Cynical and old I return to the fold:
Faith paper-thin as the sign on the door.

The sign says ICE is not welcome here.
Young and graceful the daughter of immigrants.

Daughter of immigrants, third year in college.
She puts us to bagging potatoes.

She puts us to packing food boxes.
Her parents are afraid to leave their home.

Two communities call this church home.
Only one can safely leave their own.

Deliver us from evil. Deliver food
the beloved community gathers.

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(Featured image from Pexels)