One morning I was hiking on the trail above the lake,
Where the park adjoins a seldom-traveled road.
Beyond the road was empty pasture
With dry grass waving in the wind.
I turned a corner in the path,
And before me was a family of wild turkeys,
A mother hen and eight young, almost grown,
Working their way uphill toward the road
From the springs below
Where they had gone to drink.
The hen, intent to keep her children safe,
Stayed close and did not fly.
I think the young had never seen a man before,
So they didn’t know to run.
They just walked swiftly through the grass,
Across the trail, down through the roadside ditch
And then to safety on the farther side.
All the while I stood motionless,
Filled with gratitude and delight
That I had turned that corner in the path
At that particular time.
