Had I not entered the paddock to shovel their shit from inside the hoop house that is their shelter from the weather, the mules would have stayed in the far field, oblivious to the turkey flock that had wandered inside the fence in search of
what?
Food, yes; but diet?
Grass, weed seeds, worms in old dung and flies on fresh?
The mules were curious about other things: me, or rather, had I brought treats or hay? That wheel barrow and shovel again, and, no doubt a shove to clear them from the gate when finished; and only then, the birds. Heads down and at a trot, they divided the flock, some into adjacent fields, others flying a good hundred yards into the big firs out front and fifty feet up.
Chuck chuck chuck
The big tom calls out to meet under the crab apple.
The ladies chirp from their perch and one-by-one, glide over the house.
I watch this as I try to drown out a vole, hose down one hole until all of the other holes glisten with small reflections of the clouds.
Rain is coming on a strong wind and I still have chores, leaves to rake and add to the dung. Leaves the turkeys now turn over. (Dung piled against the compost pile.) I wonder if like chickens and guineas, they eat rodents, for none come forth.
More leaves foreshadow. The rain, that is, yet for the turkeys, in reverse as I approach with garbage bag and rake in hand.
(I counted twelve birds last week; today, ten.)
I will pick up more manure and leaves tomorrow.
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