It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one’s steps to the upper air – there’s the rub, the task.
Virgil
“The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows.”
― Socrates
The woods, still shadowed by night’s heavily veiled curtain, felt strangely cool as the iridescently dark sky shimmered overhead. Odd shadows danced from the corners of his eyes. Shrill chirps and buzzes humming steadily on the night wind offered an odd comfort. The crunching of dead leaves and the snapping of broken twigs, heard after each careful step, alerted any interested party to his position.
This spot seemed as good as any other as the pine straw felt strangely soft as he sat down settling underneath the large old oak tree. He sat deathly still waiting for first light.
Perfectly timed, as if right on cue, the loud crashing swoosh dropped down from the branches overhead. Hearing the sound of such heaviness, crashing through the hidden limbs and leaves, dropping down from somewhere just above his head, a small wave of excitement took hold.
He knew it was time.
“Putt, putt, putt.”
The vibrations of blowing through the small paper mouth call tickled the roof of his mouth.
As time slowly passed and the sun rose slightly higher in the morning sky, the odd guttural call, the primordial call of the yearly rite of Spring, echoed through the thicket.
“Putt, putt, putt”
The game of cat and mouse played on for almost 20 minutes.
“putt, putt, putt”
“Gobble, Gobble, Gobble”
It was a back and forth volley of calls and responses.
One member of this unseen tango hopes for a trophy coupled by a festive dinner–
the other member hopes to find a little bit of loving.
Strutting, in full feathered regalia, the giant Tom turkey slowly steps out from the protection of the trees. The strong internal urge pulling the turkey out of the safety of his cover, out to the open field in search of the awaiting hens—or so he assumes. . .
Spring is certainly all about the birds and the bees with today, the time of romance for some of Nature’s larger birds, being no exception.
One would think that turkey season should be open during the Fall of the year, as everyone prepares a Thanksgiving table featuring a beautifully roasted turkey. Oddly however, turkey season is a Spring event coinciding with the mating season.
They are beautiful birds being documented as having roamed North America 5 million years ago.
These majestic birds live in every state in the Nation with the exception being Alaska. They are even residents of Canada and Mexico. The early settlers preferred the roasted birds for their nutty tasting meat as the birds do forage on wild nuts–which marks the beginnings of our menu choice for our Thanksgiving celebration.
And had Benjamin Franklin had his druthers, the North American turkey would be the symbol of this mighty nation of ours, forgoing the American Bald Eagle.
The males are known for their vibrant blue heads, beards–a profusion of tufted hair which sprouts from their chests and for the length of their spurs–the large claw on the back of the foot used for defense.
As with most female birds, the female turkey is not known for her brillant coloring. She is more of a dull brown. The bland dullness is based on the fact that the females sit on the nests and must be camouflaged, being able to blend into their surroundings.
The greatest threats to the native turkeys are not humans but are actually coyotes, which attack and eat the young poults (baby turkeys), as well as raccoons which will raid nests in search of eggs.
A beautiful and majestic bird indeed.
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