It is mating season for wild turkeys, and lately a tom has been showing up to watch three hens feed beneath our apple trees. They come for the sunflower seeds that greedy blue jays have spilled from the feeders and for the chaff smaller birds have left behind. These hens appeared six weeks ago after a snowstorm, lean and hungry as they emerged from the deep woods. By the time the tom appeared, they had fattened up with what they managed to scratch from the snow.
The male keeps his distance as if he’s waiting for a sign. Although he is nearly twice their size, I have never seen him eat. Each day he approaches a little closer, calling to them, and spreads his feathers into a pulsing fan. His head and neck flush a lurid red that suggests there’s unruly passion beneath his stately calm. I have witnessed this behavior in other years, but this spring is different with three hens so closely bonded, a single tom, and the daily foreplay so close to the house.
There is order to this annual ritual of mating and renewal. The hens are drawn to our yard because it’s safe and there is food, and the tom comes because there are hens. Beyond the apple trees there are predators in the woods. At night we hear the yip and howl of coyotes and occasionally the scream of a fisher cat, and after a snow we see their footprints criss-cross the yard. Yesterday a pair of red foxes trotted by in full daylight. In the woods we see a piles of feathers and scattered bones, so these hens are wary. They take flight whenever we open a door. Lately, since the tom arrived, they have been a little slower to scare.
How do they know what they know of the rhythm of seasons and the ritual of mating? Day after day the tom appears in the afternoon light and begins his dance with no encouragement from the indifferent hens who keep their heads to the ground. And yet, they all seem to know how this will end. When the mating is done, the tom will disappear and the hens will lay their eggs.
All winter our apple trees have been stormed with birds. Chickadees mainly, but nuthatches too and titmice, juncos and jays. They have their rituals too, all different and all coded before they hatched. A pair of cardinals returns year after year, and we refer to them by name. Like turkeys, they feed from the ground on dropped seeds, one on the ground while the other keeps watch from a branch overhead. When it’s time to change places, they are both on the ground for a second or two, the male smaller and a brilliant red, the female elegant and subtler in beauty. Both look nervous and skittish when they’re not in a tree.
Chickadees may be common, but they are my clear favorites with their dipping flight and cheerful songs. When I come to fill the feeders, they remain in the trees and call, “chickadee, chickadeedeedee!” I once heard a scientist say that this is a call of distress, a warning to others of approaching danger, the number of “dees” relative to the seriousness of the danger. I’m not sure about that. When I fill my feeders, I sense no fright. The chickadees are curious and eager, and their call seems to broadcast news of the food I bring. Soon the trees are filled with chickadees. How do they know to not be afraid? If the feeders are empty and I am patient, they will eat from my hand. The bravest will approach cautiously, hopping from branch to branch to get a closer look at the seeds I hold in my palm. After a few feints, one will land on my hand and grip a finger with surprising strength. When it has its seed, it will fly to a nearby branch to eat.
But this is about turkeys. The tom appeared in a dismal rain this morning to continue his courtship. His patience is a paradox — after mating he will transform from a patient suitor into a deadbeat dad. The hens know this, just as the cardinal knows her mate will stay by her side; and somehow both species survive. In my words and thoughts there is a bigger paradox as I assign human motive and choice to these birds and suggest that their minds are at work in this story of survival. I know better. I know that instinct drives their behavior, that although I admire the cardinals for their long relationships, without reason they are no more faithful than the turkey is wanton because they can imagine no other way to behave. The long and deliberate courtship the tom conducts outside my window is no sign of virtue, and the hens he woos are not being coy. They all obey a clock they do not understand.
The paradox is me. I prefer to imagine that these hens are sisters, sole survivors from a decimated brood playing a heroic role in nature’s grand calculus. I like to think they know that if they stay near our house, their odds against predators will improve, even though I know that they spend most of their days and all their nights in the darker woods where predators lurk.
When we first came here nearly 40 years ago, there were no turkeys. We rarely saw deer around the house, and never saw a bear. Now all are common. This summer in late afternoon I will see flocks of turkeys feeding in the hayfield. I will stop to count them and note from one sighting to the next how their numbers have dwindled. I will look closer and believe that the hens that lead and manage the flock are the three that now are feeding beneath our apple trees.
Jonathan Stableford lives in Strafford. He can be reached at jon.stableford@gmail.com.