Sunday Stanza: Liberace, the Turkey-Hearted Peahen

Now most backyard tales start simple and sweet,
With chicks in a coop or hens on a beat—
But this one begins with a turkey named Karen,
Whose maternal ambition was downright declarin’.

Each spring she’d sit with unshakable will,
On a nest full of nothin’, just dreamin’ her fill.
She fluffed up her feathers and clucked with conviction,
But year after year brought the same contradiction.

No chicks. No peeps. No proud little brood—
Just disappointment beneath her good mood.
But Karen, you see, ain’t the quittin’ kind.
She had mothering burned into her bird-brain mind.

Then one spring morn, with a wink from above,
Or perhaps just a veterinarian’s soft-hearted shove,
A different egg landed in her old nest—
Not turkey, but peafowl—tan-shelled and blessed.

She took to that egg like it came from her soul,
Kept it warm through the chill, never losing control.
And when it hatched out? Well, bless her dear heart—
She welcomed a squawk with a whole different start.

She was lanky and loud, with eyes full of sass,
Tail feathers twitchin’ like blades in the grass.
Her call was a shriek that could rattle a barn,
And her strut? She had that peahen charm.

We named her Liberace—it just felt right,
With a showman’s soul and a flair for delight.
She marched through the yard like a Vegas parade,
While Karen kept watch in the cool morning shade.

Now Liberace, though born from a turkey’s embrace,
Grew a head with a crown full of vertical grace—
Those slender plumes of green and blue stood tall,
Forming a feathered delicate tiara, the envy of all.

Now the tom looked puzzled, the chickens dismayed,
But Karen stood proud of the child she’d made.
“Doesn’t matter,” she clucked, “if she gobbles or screams—
She’s mine, and she’s perfect, and born of my dreams.”

So, if ever you think love comes just one way,
With feathers that match or the right DNA,
Remember the tale of the turkey who believed—
That love’s not in looks, but the care we conceive.

A turkey named Karen, a daughter full of flash,
A tale stitched in laughter with heartstrings and hash.
And though she may strut with a fan fit for kings,
She learned how to love from a peahen’s colorful wings.

DocBott