I see art in the turkeys who come to our yard daily. I see beauty and wonder as they drink from the old, metal bucket we keep filled with water, tilting their heads back once they've filled their mouths with a swallow so that the liquid can go down and quench and fill. I am delighted to watch them peck and scratch at the dirt, and, sometimes, sit in it.
They haven't brought their babies here to drink for more than two years now. I wish they would, but I'm content just to see them live and move and have their being right outside our kitchen window.
Turkeys aren't known for their beauty. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to them. Cats and dogs, dolphins and horses have many admirers. But turkeys, with their tiny pink heads, their thin legs, and their sleek, dark bodies, aren't the recipients of as much love. But still they go about their lives, unconcerned with the world that only notices them for their meat.
I notice them, these wild friends of mine, and I never tire of watching them walk, run, sit, drink, explore, and fly into the tall pines at twilight to sleep in safety.
Sometimes I feebly gobble to them from above or across, and sometimes they reply. But more often I just watch them, like I'm doing right now, not wanting to alarm them and thus hasten their departure.
I watch this corner of the turkeys' world, knowing that when I'm no longer living here, my heart will still thrill at the sound of their gobbling, one of my favorite sounds in the world.