Two Wild Turkeys
    for my mother and father

On a branch from a dead tree that lies horizontally
to the snow-covered earth below,
two wild turkeys roost.

They hunker down,
their dark bodies cocoon against the north wind
into the warmth of each other.

And the branch that is so slender 
it floats mere inches above the ground
holds.

Can you see how their tail feathers dust the snow,
how they will soon lean into the moonless night, suspended
and coupled in this wild and lovely place?

Once so sharply silhouetted against the snow,
now their shapes sink into the dusk
and when I look out my window,
I see one—not two.

Later when I dream,
even the stones mate for life.