Turkey   My mother’s father, held in place by work and braces, relaxed at evening and spoke of things more luminous than stars above his wide veranda.   We’re coastal and turkey-less here, not like your horizon spreading pebbles for a turkey’s craw. Tell me why the cock bird, when not scarring paddocks with flick-knife wings, hunts for worms, when it already wears one fixed to its brow?   I had no answer, for I was eight years old, and callow in the ways of turkeys, especially one with green-sheen feathers and the head of a blushing flower.   My…