Gravied Vegetables
William Bradford can recruit his fingers for exact quantification. The number of wild turkeys stands at five, distinguished from the number four, distinguished the number three, and so on. Their plucked bodies resemble their saurian antecedents, stuffed with filberts and mixed herbaceous material. The cottage door, opened for ventilation, reveals flat coastal woodland, cleared for tillage. William Bradford recalls a drowned wife. He recalls endless theological disputations. He looks outside and sees, through a veil of tears, complimentary buffet parking. He sees prominent signage along the highway offramp. A heavenly kingdom nears its disclosure, with unlimited seafood buffet and complimentary takeout boxes.
Meanwhile, his Wampanoag benefactors file across dormant fields. They shoulder venison shoulder, shoulder the ribs and legs of venison, more provender for a lean season. Their clients are already at table. They utter blessings, all gratitude for a god across the water. He who has provided will provide again. Lean seasons give way to seasons of plenty. The congregation, great saints, will let out their skits; will punch new belt holes. Coupons will be redeemed alongside preexisting discounts for seniors and veterans. Uncountable conveyances will discarge along thoroughfares, state and municipal, follow old hunting paths, back to gravied vegetables, back to warm rooms and television.
