Wild Turkeys and a Murder of Crows

By Tony Moorby December 06, 2021

Last year I made it almost all the way through winter wearing shorts. I think I resorted to donning jeans only twice and long pants when something a little more formal dictated so. I couldn’t tell you the last time I wore a suit.

We’re only a couple of weeks into fall and I’ve already succumbed to sporting jeans three times. Advancing age and blood thinners make sure I feel every degree of chillier weather. Dithering around in the garden, for the most part, is now sub-contracted to a nice young man and his sister who seem to know what they’re doing. I’ll wait till spring to reassert my authority over next year’s scheme and design.

My brother used to love coming over in the fall, to clear blue skies over settled weather and wispy clouds in the evening looking like a dove’s breast, as the sun’s dying rays light them from beneath – a Tiffany lamp for all to share. 

Colors of fall this year have been outrageously gaudy – Mother Nature flirting like a floozy before creating the nuisance of discarding the now-drab leaves and hiding away under hoar frosts for winter. Crickets have now joined the silence of the birds – I miss their trill – so long as they’re not in the garage!

A murder of crows visited a copse of pine trees near the house. Squabbling, squawking, raucously arguing and viciously pecking – there must have been 50 of them pushing and shoving for about half an hour. Then just as quickly, they were gone – no rhyme or reason. Bikers of the bird world.

I like the fall as the humidity dips and early mornings have that crunchy crispness that you can almost feel. I dislike it being the herald of what’s to come – I’m getting to despise winter. There’s virtually nothing I like about it except the muted, quiet colors and shapes of trees. My grandson used to like seeing bare trees better than those in full leaf because ‘he could see the shape of their skeletons’ (a smiling emoji should be inserted here). It’s an expression he made at the age of about seven and I’ve never forgotten it.

Deer are growing crazy in the rut, running here, there and everywhere, creating hazards for themselves and everyone else.

The roads around here provide a Thanksgiving feast for the Turkey Vultures. They’ve grown so used to the abundance that they roost atop the street lights on busy divided highways with either disdain or disinterest – it’s all in the way they shrug their shoulders.

Wild turkeys strut down our street strolling from the golf course making that ludicrous giggling, gobbling sound that doesn’t suit them at all. At night they roost on branches too high for the hungry coyotes that then go on a haunting, howling rampage, getting especially aroused by the sirens of police cars, which sound amazingly similar.

When my brother was here we’d hit the Bourbon Trail, enjoying Kentucky’s gifts of scenery and generous hospitality. I’m not a heavy drinker but am amazed at the dexterity of the distillers in being able to interpret so many nuances from basically the same ingredients. I will admit to a fondness for a nine o’clock nightcap; Buffalo Trace being the current favorite.

It may provide antifreeze for the coming months. 

 

   

   

Last modified on Monday, 06 December 2021 16:26