My Vineyard backyard’s blooming
With three wild turkey celebrants
Of sex, emergent bright red snoods,
Caruncles tumbling

With the iridescent hope
Of feathered matings.
At the moment, I am their only admirer.
A quarrel among them crackles

And clacks (are they competing
For my attention?).
As if on ball bearings,
They roll toward each other,

Disputatiously, skittering
Over dead leaves.
Disorder subsides.
The turkeys return to jabbing

For insects, and I think of
My architect friend who weathers
Project disputes, waiting for
Ruffled feathers to settle.

History’s replete with war
And peace. In my yard, just now,
Feathers of forgiveness
Float on the spring air.