It is not that I think birds are evil. It is simply that I am convinced that turkeys thirst for my blood.
I don’t know how many of you live near wild turkeys, but they were legion around where I grew up. When I was safely ensconced in the car, I didn’t mind them. Even from the safety of my mom’s old Toyota though, turkeys seemed a little dangerous. Most people associate turkeys with childhood artwork with food on the table. I only remember looking out the car window to see a gang of them sitting in the trees above us, watching with narrowed eyes as we passed below. Turkeys may not be the strongest of flyers, but they can certainly get lift off when they try hard enough. And that is when they attack you.
To be fair, I may have a biased perspective. When I was 12 years old, my school took us all on a camping trip. Early one morning before the sun had entirely risen, my tent mates and I heard terrifying noises coming from somewhere outside. Rustling. Squawking. (Let no one tell you that all birds have a beautiful song.) We peeked through the gap in our tent to discover that a flock of wild turkeys had descended upon us. They were gigantic. They were angry. And our tent was the sort that didn’t have a floor and only mostly closed on all sides.
Needless to say the birds held us hostage until some kind soul lured them away with promises of bread, or blood sacrifices, or whatever it is that turkeys desire.
So on this day, I always respect the bird that made a sacrifice to grace my dinner table. In life, he was probably fierce. And even in death, I have the feeling that he would like to peck at me.
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Image Attribution: Shout out to Barbara Nilsen for her most excellent hand turkey. 1974. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Handprint_turkey.jpg