Last waltz

Last waltz. People leaving Rancho Nicasio in droves. The turquettes, young turkeys, are lined up and gobbling on the fence, straddling pullet "feed-me" peeps and teenage angst or maybe they're the backup singers for the band. Mama deer  parades her twin fawns, their spots like constellations in the grass. They watch, amused by all this Sunday hubbub. The turkeys risk crossing the road: they have a lot to say while holding up traffic at the 2nd base outfield.


see poem SUNDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC JAM