Rock and wild turkeys in the Fall of 2008 Ever since Rachmaninoff died, with one exception (see the June 15 posting), I have noted the strange absence of wild turkeys here. Their continued absence underscores his.
For three years two hens brought their poults to raise in the peace and quiet of this protected, wooded acre. They were comfortable around Rock and he enjoyed being among them. I know he kept them safe from marauding cats.
Though I am making my way on the grief journey in the four months since his death, part of me wants only to get back to the time when Rock was still here. I never want to forget him.
After sharing nearly 20 years with such a special being, I can't expect the going to be easy, but I am consoled by the words of the Irish poet Thomas Moore (1779-1852):
For three years two hens brought their poults to raise in the peace and quiet of this protected, wooded acre. They were comfortable around Rock and he enjoyed being among them. I know he kept them safe from marauding cats.
Though I am making my way on the grief journey in the four months since his death, part of me wants only to get back to the time when Rock was still here. I never want to forget him.
After sharing nearly 20 years with such a special being, I can't expect the going to be easy, but I am consoled by the words of the Irish poet Thomas Moore (1779-1852):
"And the tear that we shed,
though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory
Shall long keep his memory
green in our souls."
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