I am walking toward my writing cabin as fast as I can, holding my computer in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. A darkening sky and blowing wind accompanies me this morning, and I can hear thunder in the distance. Yanking the door open, I slip inside, closing it tightly behind me. I'm safe, dry and snug in here, I think.
Through the wall of windows I can see lightening break across the sky, jagged and powerful. Tree branches are whipping wildly against each other as the storm arrives in full force.
Ten wild turkeys are running through the ferns, heading for my pile of brush. I put it there for the ground animals to hide under during thunderstorms and blizzards. The turkeys climb on top of the mound tucking their feathers tightly to their bodies, and lower themselves on the rough dead wood. I don't think they like to get their feet wet. They preen a little, and then drop their heads.
Loud thunder...gobble gobble gobble. Louder thunder...gobble gobble gobble. With each roll of thunder comes the turkey talk. I'm guessing they don't like being interrupted from their ground scratching and pecking, but what do I know of turkey talk?
For a decade I've witnessed many storms in these woods, and the turkeys always squawk after each clap of thunder. A private joke perhaps? Laughter? I'm not sure, but it never ceases to amaze me.
Turkey talk! Who knew?