Most mornings, I wake up somewhere between four and five o’clock. Often it’s courtesy of my cat Ruby, who seems to feel that’s an appropriate hour for breakfast. Lately, however, my alarm has been a soft burbling noise from the woods behind our house, the wake-up call of the local turkey flock.
At some point (and there’s no telling when, as they keep to their own schedule), they’ll appear, stalking through the yard on lean legs, walking with slow ceremony as they search the ground for nuts, berries, and other choice morsels. Most of the year, it’s just The Girls (as I call them), six or eight hens busy about their business. In spring (in other words now) they’re joined by a robust and handsome fellow I’ve nicknamed “Barry White” for his sultry mating call. Barry postures and preens, puffs his feathers until he’s almost spherical, and fans his spectacular tail feathers as he courts his women. (One year, we had a flock of 15 come through, with a fully adult male and two juveniles, all working hard to lure the ladies.)
I suspect Barry will be successful in his wooing, and I look forward to seeing the hatchlings come through the yard, following close on mother’s heels, mindful of the raptors, coyote, and fox that also shelter in our woods.