It’s that time of year: deflated
Santas on brown lawns. A mob
of wild turkeys blocks the trail.

Clapping gloved hands, you begin
to shoo them away.
Some putt and scatter

into the street, stopping traffic.
A woman walking towards you asks
through a bared-tooth smile:

“Are you trying to kill them?”
“Why, yes, I am. You’re next. Now git,”
you want to reply.

You keep quiet though.
This is Minnesota, if looks could
kill, and other cliches

cling to the ice
precariously covering
the southern lakeshore.