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.