A sign of optimism. Or of confidence. Not knowing the outcome.

These fowl sleep atop the ponderosa pines- above my home in quiet peace.

They hang like black caped ghosts.

Then a wing lifts or a head turns to reveal their location.

Each morning they float down to the grass, renewing life each day.

At least 50 of them.

Soon they will survive minus thirty degrees, and several feet of snow.

And predators like hawks and hunters, and even Benny.

Still they strut. They remain optimistic and confident.

Even joyful in their gobble, outside my bedroom window.

A reliable alarm clock, telling me to try very hard, to be the same.