Turkeys, Turkeys Everywhere

Partridges may live in pear trees; turkeys prefer pine.  At least five were clustered in the branches just off the deck while their buddies gathered under the oak at the edge of the woods.  Farview is absolutely overrun with turkeys.  A few of the Peeping Tomettes peered in the windows as they walked the rail again yesterday.  At least one tribe of twelve to fifteen waits behind the shed to come running when I throw down seed in the morning.  That major massing in Joel's vineyard the other day?  They've moved into the goat pen.  For two nights now, I've counted thirty-six in the pen and more coming over the fence and others gliding down from the tree over the barn when I arrive to put the girls to bed.  The large number is not surprising anymore; it is the fact that they so grudgingly move out of the way, barely.  The goats always come to meet me at the gate and we walk down to the barn together.  (Poppy moves slower so she heads in that direction as soon as she sees me coming.)  The progress of our parade is stalled as we wait for turkeys to give ground.  The goats are as confused as I and seem unwilling to challenge the invaders.  After the girls are tucked in, I head back up the slope, walking within a few feet of the big birds who stand as if daring me to question their right to be exactly where they are.  To paraphrase Coleridge:  Turkeys, turkeys everywhere; nor any bite to eat.