On Black Friday, we woke to the sound of a turkey dance.
They came from the woods, gathered in the sun, and thumbed their little beards at us from the cornfield next to our cabin.
Still a little doped up on tryptophan from our Thanksgiving feast, we gathered at the window to watch them play.
Turkey in the straw. Ha Ha Ha.
All hepped up on the sweet taste of freedom, they partied in honor of their national holiday. They looked like middle school students lined up in the gym on a Friday night; the Toms strutted, the hens preened and they all flirted a bit with their wattles and snoods. It took a while for the actual dancing to begin.
The cocky ones looked up disdainfully a time or two, having caught a movement from behind the cabin window. Nobody likes a chaperone.
Still jammied up, I stuck my feet in borrowed slippers, stepped out on the front porch, poked my head around the chimney and tried to snap a photo or two.
This irritated them in a noisy, OMG-do-you-have-to-do-that-now way, so I left them alone.
The birds prattled on, gossiping about the season and supremely happy we hadn’t gobble, gobbled them.