the wild, wild turkeys of La Conner

Last year the turkeys came to town and some stayed to raise a family. The mom and dad had a bunch of boys and one girl and the dad got wanderlust. The tale gets a bit sordid with all those virile toms and only one hen and I think there might be the making of a fowl Oedipal theme, but it is best not to judge the cuss toms of other cultures. Heh Heh.
I write about the turkeys by way of introducing what I love about life. I love wildness. I love it in the cracks of asphalt where weeds grow; I love it in the smiles of loose, roaming dogs; I love it in the exhuberant cries of playing or protesting children and I love it in myself, when I ride my bicycle and am transformed into my hidden eight-year-old. I love the wildness of a shrub growing on the side of a cliff; of a clump of grass growing on a pier post; the tenacity of lichen on rocks; the lazarusity of dandylions that refuse garden control and eradication.
We are all gardens and gardeners. Every garden should have a wild place and that unruly place cherished. Order is important but it needs a touch of chaos to bring out the flavor. I admire those that will allow, live and let live and engender rebellion in others. I, myself, love to corrupt others. I love to sow the seeds of discontent to a plastic life, to becon the child in the stoic adult, to waste time and do nothing but daydream. The useless is OH SO IMPORTANT to us all.
So, in a place where the plague of gentrification and progress elbow aside the the real reason for life, the wild turkeys arrived. They do not get out of the way of cars; you can honk your car to horseness, shake your fist and fret that time's a wastin', yet the turkeys will just be themselves.