Groping in the Gravy
It was Thanksgiving Day on Dulemar River. The turkey burnt a hole in the baby's crib. The smell wafted through the oaks to me, out on the Lake. I pushed off with my teeth fearing the worst. I'd become beaver-like in my obsession. The horn-back geese understood me now. The lazy catfish, silky to touch , still didn't. Short , abrupt grunts ricocheted off the surface and floundered in incomprehensible mundanity. Never put a turkey in your underwear, or there could be consequences.
