With temperatures near zero,
I try to play the hero,
intent to go outside and feed the birds.
The turkey is most foul,
unlike the sacred owl,
an animal too ugly for mere words.
With face most like a vulture
and raised within a culture
whose habits are to preen and eat and shit,
the animal shows not a shred
of care for humans, live or dead,
and yet, somehow I seem to feel for it.
And so, dressed like a clown,
in jacket filled with down,
I brave the dreaded wind chill like a champ.
They’ll eat their scattered food,
with scrapes amongst the brood,
and then return to their cold turkey camp.