It seems it takes two days to move from statue-still shock to the slow reintegration of Life. Breathing fully does not begin until several days later. Even then, for most, breath remains captive within the shell of disbelief. For some, fullness of breath never returns. They are forever prisoner to that shattering moment. Shattering because the event does not, cannot, ever absorb into their reality because if it does, the mind implodes into unrecognizable pieces just as She did.

The Land where we live is bisected by a largely unmarked road. It has only gained human attention because after puncturing the skin of protection, this weapon thrusts itself into the viscera of the unbounded Forests referred to as “public land.” Ironically, the tiny one mile segment demarcated as “private” is the safest place for the Natives – the Deer, Raccoons, Black Bear, Puma, Skunks, and Wild Turkeys.

When the space of holidays descends into the unceasing maelstrom of human life, the little road traffic melts into silence. Human minds are generally too preoccupied with each other to venture out to kill. So, it was with misgiving this Thanksgiving that I listened to the train of three cars coming up the road. Misgiving turned into sickening dread when I heard and my mind saw the bitter push of foot on pedal acceleration followed by thud and crack, succeeded by the other two cars’ crack crack crack.

I ran up to the road and turned to see the telltale scatter of downy feathers. As my steps hit the stony road one by one, my breath in loud gulps, I saw, in the muddy ditch, a yellow hand leading into the graceful leg ending in a stump of raw pulpy red. A few more steps, the ragged remains of the Elder Female Turkey, her head and heart dangling onto the blank of road. Only a few meters away under the Trees, her Family stood, frozen, eyes dazed in vacant terror despite my cries of reassurance and love.

No one came to home sanctuary to break bread that evening. There was no stream of Turkeys pouring down the driveway slope. The grass and patched Winter ground was barren of clawed feet reaping the seeds spun from my hands for nightly repast. There were no idyllic pauses to groom under the arms of the mountain and settling Sun. There was not only absence but emptiness.

The driver who murdered with full intent was obviously possessed by obliterating rage. Did the Turkey symbolize the void of love made fatal on the day that demands family worship no matter if relations are defined by face breaking fists, rape and the vacuum of confusion?

The Turkey and her family who are so naturally and effortlessly what modern humans cannot seem to be is erased into the unforgiving pavement. We celebrate our personal grandeur and species accomplishments, but after this, tell me, where is it now that the children play?