I heard the wild turkeys gobbling, deep in the woods.
Couldn’t see them, but heard them fine as their
conversations grew articulate and refined.
I sat still, waiting for their arrival,
hearing them coming closer, closer

They never appeared.

Instead

a gold finch perched on the thistle seed feeder,
side kicked by a chickadee, to snack.
They thanked me, profusely, fluttered off, full.

Two little beauties,
four feet from my seat.

Gold finch and chickadee miracles
substitute sufficiently
for wild turkey.