Perhaps not explicitly ABOUT Thanksgiving, but Whitman's "The pure contralto sings in the organ loft" section from Leaves of Grass strikes me as pretty appropriate, maybe especially this year, and not just because of the turkey shooting.
It's so long that I won't put it here....but maybe just the end:
Quote:
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahoochee or Altamahaw;
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them;
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport;
The city sleeps, and the country sleeps;
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time;
The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife;
And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them;
And such as it is to be of these, more or less, I am.
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https://books.google.com/books?id=i0...20loft&f=false