The first time we drove by, they looked like dark feathery blurs. Enormous brown blurs, strolling down a dirt lane, about 100 feet from our speeding Saab. Aubrey in the back seat was incredulous. “Were those birds?” Being pretty sure we had just zipped by a small flock of turkeys, I was anxious for Jim to turn the car around so we could have a better look. Our church pew arrival was going to be several minutes late anyway... Having missed the spectacle entirely, Jim’s curiosity was piqued too. So making an impressive illegal U-turn, we headed back to investigate.
Sure enough, we were rewarded with the sight of nine wild turkeys, some of them rather large. Seven were minding their own business….meandering slowly down the path, pecking at the ground and enjoying the first luckless insects of spring. But the remaining two fowl were making a preposterous display of themselves. One at each end of the throng, they jockeyed for position as they held their female audience captive between them. Each had their tail feathers spread to a ridiculous span, trying to arrest the attention of their seven female counterparts (which were by and large ignoring the herculean efforts of the males.) Strutting along with Y chromosome extensively displayed, those outlandish birds could hardly keep themselves upright. Just as one of the Toms was at his most puffed up and vain, he would begin to list to the left…his great and arrogant feather weight drawing his body sideways in a bizarre swaying motion. He would regain his composure, only to find himself side-stepping in the opposite direction as he moved with barely controlled tumble, this time to the right. Pitiful and amusing to watch, he had no choice but to follow his outstretched feathery display, over to the left…..oh dear - maybe to the right….whoa…... Imagine this with one turkey going one direction and the other fat turkey strutting his stuff in the reverse at the far end of the lane. Turkey feet doing a late seventies rendition of The Hustle. The choreography was hilarious. And as all this nonsense was happening around them, the feathered women kept methodically pecking away at the ground, barely noticing the great heights to which those conceited boys ventured.
Silly men, those Tom Turkeys. They make things so hard for themselves. Want to impress the girls? Write her a letter with your scratchy turkey feet. Bring her a daisy for no reason at all. Or better yet, offer to scrub the kitchen floor. Seriously. No chest puffing or other nonsensical preening required.
