Mountains ring with fog,

morning star drowning in purple haze.

This is spring in the Appalachians.

A cool breeze saves me

ends my Hypnotic daze.

From the ridge where I sit

I can here a tom.

Thunder out his gobble

at the coming dawn.

Another would answer somewhere far off.

The Tom would double gobble

as If to say "enough".

All of nature in perfect form

abides to the mighty bird.

He repeats his lusty gobble

demanding to be heard.

The sun begins to light

the tops of the tallest trees.

On the side hill below me

two hen birds begin to feed.

There are no more gobbles,

the mountain has become a theater.

Dogwoods bloom white

the air thick with cedar.

Wingtips plow crooked trails

through last fall’s forgotten splendor.

Colors pressed flat by winter’s snowy lever.

Bronze iridescent body,

patriotic head.

Blue and white snood above

waddles below blood red.

Tail fanned in full display,

Jake birds respectful

kept at bay