Ten turkeys wander from the wood
To dig in my backyard
And scratch for bugs among the leaves
And compost I discard.

The mothers cluck and guard their poults.
The fathers strut and preen.
They flaunt their tails and, gobbling, call,
“Hey baby, look at me!”

But to their manly posturing,
The hens are quite immune.
When spring is past with babies hatched,
Hens hear a different tune.

The hens ignore the puffed-out chests
And splendid turkey stance.
Their eyes see only bugs and dirt
And miss the courting dance.

Then comes the spring when hens look up
And comprehension dawns
Of gobbling calls throughout our wood
And strutting on our lawn.