Barbara Allen”

The turkeys. The turkeys are gob­bling some­thing fierce this morn­ing. Up in the nar­row strip of woods between the urban high­way I walk along and the upscale res­i­den­tial street at the top of the rise a sur­pris­ing num­ber of Melea­gris gal­lopa­vo are evi­dent­ly lurk­ing brave­ly. The vigourous gob­bles fol­lowed fast one upon the oth­er; at least three gob­bler, and no mere jakes, either, but full-fledged toms, gob­bling to beat the band.

We still dream of the wood­ed coun­try life, sit­ting on the porch in the evening, watch­ing the sun­set and and singing folk­songs to the accom­pa­ni­ment of my gui­tar. “Bar­bara Allen” is my tune all the way to work today, not in the least cur­tailed by the fact that I only know the tit­u­lar name and the tune. So I hummed ener­get­i­cal­ly and sang out “Bar­bara Allen” at reg­u­lar short intervals.

Soon, my loves. Soon the rur­al life; I am sure of it.

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