A rafter in the back woods:five toms and eighteen hens,a remnant of the Pilgrim myththat predicated genocide.
Bobbing heads and fanned tails,almost our national bird.If I hunted, I’d choose the alpha male;primal man is another myth.
Breast-heavy and flightless,my turkey resembles nothing.Each year I cook it Cuban style.
The hens, more interestedin bugs than formal displays,leave courtship to the males.
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