The last afternoon waltz is over.
Revelers leave the Rancho Nicasio in droves
and gun their pricey cars lining the square.
The wild turkey chicks straddling the fence,
chime in with pullet-sized "feed-me" peeps
and squawk with teenaged angst at passers-by,
or maybe they 're hoping to audition
as backup singers for the band.
Mama deer parades her twin fawns,
their spots—like constellations in the dry grass
as they head down to the creek for their evening drink.
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.
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