So I was sitting here, not working, not trying, just hanging out on the page, when Scruffy, who was curled up on the back of my chair, suddenly stiffened, and her pupils widened, and her tail twitched.
Sidetracked, but just minutes before she (he?) strolled down the center of the road. Just hanging out. Taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells.
Heading toward “a wavery magical spot” shimmering ahead.
I wonder what kinds of words a turkey writer uses. What does a turkey call a human? How would a turkey describe me as he peers from behind that tree? What stories does he tell his turkey friends? Does he talk turkey, get serious, pull out the white board and try to solve the problem of humans in their habitat?
Or does he just go with the flow? Forget himself while his feathers quiver with the wonder of “rich treasures, beautiful souls, and interesting” humans. Does he just put his little claw in the dirt and write what he hears?
I’ve forgotten I’m supposed to be disturbed today. Maybe I am since I’m writing like this about turkeys.
“There used to be sweepstake tournaments during the holidays, Christmas and Thanksgiving. If a person bowled three strikes against the heavier pins (usually four pounds), the crowd would scream ‘turkey,” and the bowler would receive a live turkey for his or her performance.” (from Life’s Imponderables by David Feldman.)
What are you thinking of right now?
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King