Weasel in the Turkey Pen
It’s one of the mysteries of nature: arguments begin late at night. They
don’t of course, begin as arguments, but as discussions over a beer or glass of
wine between two reasonable people who share similar attitudes. They have
spent another day in each other’s company, working at all the tasks that fill a day,
and the last chore left undone as the whip-poor-will begins its monotonous beat
and mosquitoes whine in gathering crescendo, is to close the turkey chicks into
The night deepens to cricket buzz and low wind. It’s the perfect time for
talk. Their conversation lengthens. They have discovered several points of
disagreement and are talking louder. One of them has stopped listening. One of
them repeats an assertion, re-phrases it for emphasis. One grows exasperated
and notes it’s very late. The woods outside are silent as bats, suggesting
presences. This would be the perfect time to sleep in familiar embrace and let
dreams untie the knots they’ve made. But they pass across that time.
In the morning the evidence is so plain, so mundane. The little turkeys are
all in the pen; only the heads have disappeared.