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Something in the zookeeper's melancholy countenance, however, sparked a momentary flame of ridicule in my soul. With his long hair and beard, perhaps he was a hippie pirate, contemplating a turkey sandwich, with a bottle of rum.
"Gobble-de-gook! Matey!"--I called to the trees--"We'll flush some Wild Turkey now!"
Butch winced. Perhaps it was the whisky reference, the brew that historically damaged his people. Just then, in the dark, something--the fickle midnight sun, northern light nebula, or possible sheen off a floating snowy owl--pasted a glimmering pallor on Butch's face. His softened demeanor gave evidence of being greatly affected by the domesticated duo--the bird and keeper. Perhaps the turkey, once a wild creature itself, and celebrated in Thanksgiving rituals, symbolized a captive sacrificial frustration, shared by Butch's people. Or perhaps he possessed some other sort of insight--a native connection--between man and beast--if a bird can fall into the beast family--which it does. Maybe he truly was TurkeyMan; I hoped so, to take any split-personality suspicions off myself. The smoke had played havoc with my mind, what was left of it.
"Behind every broken wishbone," Butch reflected, "lies a beating bird heart."
"That's beautiful," I said. "But why carry a picture?" I asked. "If it makes you feel bad?"
"You dropped it," he said. "It's yours."
"Me? What do I care about a damn stolen bird?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his brow. "A trophy for your coup?"
"That's Indian talk!" I blinked. "Like a scalp or something. I never--"
"The wattle looks like Indian ears," he observed, "that white men cut off and mix with cranberries."
"It's a little red," I admitted, then took a breath, and sprang--"So you admit it's a turkey? Parrots don't have wattles!"
He emitted a bird trill, a plaintive sigh, a hiccup, a burp, I don't know; maybe he choked on smoke, or my tobacco chew. It sounded more junco than turkey, with a little chickadee arias thrown in. Perhaps the distant cry of a loon. Lamentations, nevertheless, however you serve it.
I wondered if Butch, in his denial, was purposely creating a devious, de facto, turkey-firewall to distance himself from his TurkeyMan past. I knew he seemed moved by the zookeeper's melancholy countenance; but still, mistaking a turkey for a parrot was unforgivable, untenable, and beyond the pale.
"Are you crying?" I noticed a charcoal streak moving down his cheek.
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