Bags of oats, bags of bones

Damn fine turkeys, cloacal kissing, and the banality of farm to table

The footpaths along and among wooded understories and windblown outcroppings of oak and mulberry are bedded down in thick, fresh fallen leaves, tucking in the slumbering, trodden earth for the dark and cold ahead. Frost has come to wither and shrivel hedge leaves up here on the old fence line, the yellow-green fruits cascading in bouts of westerly wind,…