For the last five minutes or so, six wild turkeys have been reaching for the last of last year’s fruit from one of our dwarf crab apple trees. Back-to-back snowstorms have elevated the birds such that with heavy hops up they can occasionally score fruit.
But mostly they miss. Mostly the turkeys have been going slowly around the tree, necks up-stretched, only to plunge time and again through snow up to their bellies. That and in-fighting, shoo-shooing each other away from the tree.
Earlier these same turkeys fought for position by the screened hen-house door for a glimpse of the coveted chicken feeder. But our hens, unchristian red ones, their beaks dribbling cracked corn—
“Bloody no!” they screeched, glancing back and eyeballing across their shoulders.
Counting from yesterday midday we have eight hens total these days, though only five are actually laying. Which means on average we find each morning three brown eggs. Which means, in turn, we are guaranteed but one—one warm egg per late-winter morning. One warm egg to warm a cheek by.