Thinking

What is he thinking about?

He stands alone in the rain, staring up at the dull grey heavens. Is he looking for the sun, hoping one tiny beam will triumph over the clouds, and gladden his heart with its light? The water soaks his head, running down his neck, seeking the already sated earth. It must be cold out there, but whatever he seeks is more important than the cold.

The crowd has abandoned him and his mysterious quest. They huddle together in the warmth, unconcerned with the question that troubles him. Soon someone will come to herd him in, breaking off his ruminations. They fear he will look too long, forgetful, and perhaps come to harm. He stares yet more intently, hoping today will be the day that he goes to sleep satisfied. The sky gives no answer.

What is he thinking about? That grave turkey.