Trudging towards the distant woodlot they strung out in single files across the corn field, their hunched profiles looking for all the world like pack-laden Klondike gold miners.Ī couple of birds continued to stay in the shrubs, dining on whatever it was they found so attractive. It was with obvious reluctance that they were leaving here and being forced to move on to the next feeding area. What I had failed to notice a few moments earlier was that they were all feeding within the tangled shrub-lined ditch. As the car came to a stop, a turkey trio skulked along the roadside fence and another group of them crossed the road behind me (noticed in the rear-view mirror as I checked for any pickup trucks that might be bearing down upon me).Ī couple of eye blinks and fairly complete head rotation revealed that I was surrounded by turkeys, almost 50 of them. One flew past my windshield, quite close (good thing I was driving so slowly) and two more jumped out of the ditch almost in front of me. At least I missed them until I was on top of them.

Somehow, between seeking images large and small, I missed the medium sized subjects, those being turkeys. But the bird-watching portion of my brain was also looking for flocks of snow buntings or, if I should be so lucky as see one, a northern shrike. I was looking for architectural scenes such as old barns and red brick farmhouses, or perhaps a rusting hay-rake half-buried in snow.

Such was my experience on a recently drive along the local backroads in search of photographic scenes. For the birdwatcher trained to constantly peer into thick piles of brush to detect small feathered life forms, tripping over a flock of turkeys feels almost ‘other-worldly.’ Whether they're swarming your bird feeder or trudging across an open corn field, turkeys get noticed. The nice thing about wild turkeys is that they are so big you can't miss them.

Abby winters group