Ham for Thanksgiving

I killed a turkey yesterday. I hit it with my car and as it bounced off the grill and hit the ground in front of the passenger-side front tire, I added death to injury when I ran it over. The image in the rear view mirror was an explosion of brown feathers.

She (it was a female) appeared so quickly that I didn’t have time to avoid her. She came over the guard rail on my right and our meeting was destined. Oncoming traffic prevented a reflexive swerve to the left.

I am left with many questions.

Why did the turkey cross the road? Actually she didn’t.

Where was she going? The apartment complex on the left didn’t appear to offer much worth dying for.

Was she the leader of the advance team on scouting mission?

Is there a flock of poults waiting for their mumma to come home with dinner? A tom wondering whether his partner slipped away with a gentleman gobbler?

Do turkeys have a wake and funeral? Is there a rafter of hens preparing to gather with lacy hankies pressed to their beaks? Preparing acorn casseroles and baking fruits and insects into loaves of yummy goodness for her family?

How long will they be respectful to her memory? How long will be before they start swishing their tail feather for her man or gossiping about her?

So many questions.

Out of respect, should we have ham for Thanksgiving?


About pennywrites

This is my third blog. The first covered what I thought would be my hardest battle. The second blog covered the journey that made the first seem trivial. This time I write because I can, not because I have to or need to.
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