Wild harvest

Early evening

collects the remaining light

of wrens and toads

I walk with my dogs

down to the river

lost in sweat

and brimming black 

pregnancy 

I find at my feet 

a matted crown 

of feathers and death

my own turkey

raised from a thumb

butchered by coyotes

ripped into a quick feast

and stealthy they’re on 

to the sniffing edge

of other hens and rabbits

turning away I reach

deep into the berry

brambles I prick my wrist 

and without thinking

lick the blood 

with my willing 

wet tongue.