Inspired by a true story … all the way down to the paint-splattered sneakers. This was written just as I was really starting to understand the genius of Billy Collins. 

I just learned today that wild turkeys sleep in trees — 
I mean way, way up in trees, like fifty to a hundred feet. 
 
Funny, all this time I thought they slept along the ground, 
Huddled together amidst the brush, finding warmth 
In the closeness of each others’ plumage, and the shared heat 
            Of their white and dark meat. 
 
But I was wrong. A hunter friend insists they zip up trees 
And rest their succulent carcasses on protruding limbs in the sky. 
(Imagine after all these years I never knew that.) 
 
Well, tonight, after everyone is asleep, I will slip on 
My hooded sweatshirt and paint-splattered sneakers, 
And search for the turkey family that’s been stopping traffic 
In my neighborhood, with their strutting and drumming 
            And brightly colored wattles. 
 
Yes, tonight, I will tiptoe atop the hardened snow, 
With my head and neck tilted back, and shine my light 
Way, way up into the pine trees that surround my home, 
In search of a band of roosting turkeys. 
 
It promises to be a most curious sight.