Seven wild turkeys have assembled
under the canopy of the biggest pine
just north of the house. They tremble-
quiver violently now and then,
to shake the snow away, then go on
sleeping. Though until they do they resemble
a cluster of god eggs or snow-covered, holy stones,
or better yet the cherished ceremonial bells
somewhere—a government hall, a cathedral—
that some yawning functionary has to tend
and, by virtue of a forgotten decree and a call,
must ring, for some reason, again and again.