Turkey Ballet

When you are tucked away in a medieval village in Italy with no Internet signal and you have finished all of the books you brought with you, you start to go into your own head. You recall a favorite poem, story, or movie and you curl up in its familiarity. Sometimes, I curl up in the thought of a platter of fried chicken and a glass of Kentucky bourbon (straight up, of course). The past week I have curled up in the familiar words of a poem from Galway Kinnell. Here it is:

Turkeys

by Galway Kinnell

Sometimes we saw shadows of gods
in the trees; silenced, we went on.
Sometimes the dog would bound off
over the snow, into the forest.
Sometimes a tree had twenty
or more black turkeys in it, each
seeming the size of a small black bear.
We remember them for their care
for their kind ever since we watched the big hen
in the very top of the tree shaking
load after load of apples down to the flock.
Sometimes I felt I would never
come out of the woods, I thought
its deeper darkness might absorb me
or feed me to the black turkeys
and I would cry out for the dog
and the dog would not answer.

Also, I exchanged some music with a French girl staying in the same village, mostly classical, and mostly featuring the cello. This, reminded me of a video which has danced around in my head like an awkward ballet of disjointed thought. Here it is: