Two Fragments

Gobble gobble in the bush,
push fern fronds away,
roll, call, wild jerkey
stew, sweating through brush,
tendrils toughening around, the
ground swelling, flaking dry.
Today our sport, twisting to
escape the tiger's eye.

Old father bends and cups
a handful of bitter earth,
I guess at ivory or maybe
marble in his teeth, he
says "Tuck your wings,
your tatters of leaf be-
hind your back, and turn
back to me."