Turkeys

Sitting in the outhouse, just after dawn, loud scratching sounds approaching. Small army of gobblers coming up the logging road right toward me. Sounds like a young war, expert grubbers, they leave nothing unturned. More than twenty, seem to know where they're going, they turn of to the west, before they get to the outhouse. One hen comes too far, my outhouses never have doors, she looks around the corner at me sitting there, five seconds, I don't move a muscle, then whisper "bang". She turns around, a no fly zone in a stand of young poplar, and runs away, with that high-stepping awkward gait turkeys have adopted, with quite a waddle, to keep their large bodies centered over the one foot that hits the ground. Excellent balance but not really elegant nor graceful. I watch wild turkeys whenever I can. Spend over an hour making a huge brunch, country-fried steak, potatoes, eggs, tomato, toast, then another coffee, sitting outside in the last of the cool shade before the day gets hot. A very little house-work, then Warren Chapel's "A Short History Of The Printed Word" which pretty much takes the rest of the day, one book leading to another. Four pair of frozen French frog-legs in the freezer, about a serving, I'd say, pull them out. I'd put a small crock pot on this morning, navy beans, smoked jowl, onions, garlic; an avocado, another tomato, both with just lime juice. Brown the frog-legs in butter, then build a sauce with chicken stock, shallots, and a nice Boletus, previously sliced and browned in butter. I'd rather not thicken these sauces, other than by reduction, I don't want them to taste white, chalk-like; a little Madeira would help, or something flinty, a dry white. Listen to Greg Brown. I don't sleep so much as nap, in the heat, losing track of time. High summer. Raphael had a lovely hand. Looking at some letters he wrote, I'm ashamed of the way I write, embarrassed that I'm barely legible. Content doesn't count for much when you can barely understand what's said. Tyler is supposed to grade the driveway, which would be good, because the driveway is very bad, but I don't really hold out much hope for easy access. High in the art of suffering (Van Morrison) has tempered me to a certain level of difficulty. Paving the road to hell, which I always think of as that mule-track down into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, or that back way into Telluride, from Yankee Boy Basin, where the road is so narrow you have to make three-point turns and the drop, off the edge, is significant. I couldn't drive it now, my fear of heights, but it's worth something, to see your life flash before you. Courtship. Access. You sound pretty good but it doesn't look right, someone my age, still in love with you. I never lost you but you were never mine. Listen, the bugs make a point, background sound might be more important than anything you were thinking. Where were you when? A motherless child. A long way from home. Nothing means anything, simply a backwash, an eddy. Might save you, but who's to make the call?