As told by the Keeper of the Turkeys
In the land of sun-scoured stone
and whispering mesquite,
where wind speaks secrets
to cracked clay and cactus bloom,
there lived a flock of humble turkeys —
though none were turkeys at all.
They were quail,
small and round,
with eyes like obsidian marbles
and hearts two sizes too bold.
Their kingdom was a coop,
not grand but good —
with soft straw beds,
and hands that fed them not just grain,
but gentleness.
Among them ruled no queen,
but watchers and wanderers —
and one restless soul.
Prince Dustfeather,
they called him in jest and awe.
He was no tyrant, but no diplomat.
A strutter. A pecker. A feather-ruffler.
And so, exiled to the Batchelor Pad he was,
in the quiet realm of solitudia.
There he stewed,
not in rage but in longing —
for dust baths shared, for soft chirps in the dark,
for something not quite named.
The Keeper,
a kind-hearted meatbag of the desert,
saw his sorrow.
And so, they walked —
together, through the cactus-stitched yard,
beneath sunburnt skies and the shade of palms.
Prince and Keeper,
misfits both, bound by silence and dust.
And then it happened —
not a storm, not a chase,
but a stillness.
He stood atop the old pond,
broken fountain throne,
and without flinch or farewell,
he flew.
Flapped higher than quail ought,
past fences, past fear,
into the yard of nothing.
The Keeper searched.
All night. All light.
But empty yards hide ghosts well,
and Dustfeather was never seen again.
Some say he found a rabbit hole
and rules now underground.
Others claim he joined a band
of wild pigeons on the power lines,
preaching the gospel of grit.
But the hens lay on,
each day a gift, a yolk of gold.
No pecks, no squabbles.
Peace, at last.
And the Keeper?
Still walks the yard,
still whispers tales to the dust,
and sometimes —
just sometimes —
hears wings in the wind.
(Written by CGPT based on my information/using my writing style)
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