Late for breakfast.
It is almost 9 AM; the turkeys are late this morning. There are only two on the snow-covered hay stacks. The others are still roosting in the nearby cottonwoods. With dormant branches reaching high above the stacks, the birds watch the eastern sky for the warmth of the sun to touch their fluffed-out bodies.
Over 50 birds gathered in the trees last night, appearing as large lumps of black against the modeled backdrop of tans, browns, ecru, and white—the canvas behind the birds lighter than the subjects.
Though the sun has yet to show, a freezing fog is approaching from the south, and the birds begin their launch from the trees to the hay stacks. Slowly, one by one, they take flight. Sturdy thick feathers hold these 10-15 pound birds aloft, flapping furiously, then a final glide onto the feed.
In just a few minutes, all the birds have arrived atop the hay. Those who landed on the ground jumped up, their three-inch toes grabbing into the sides of the stack, holding the weighted bird. With their beaks and wings for arms, the birds claw their way to the top.
The birds work the tops of the stacks over, scratching off the layer of snow and ice, then the wet straw to reach a seed of grass, caterpillar grub, or a warm cricket hiding within. Their routine will take about 30 minutes to fill their craw with protein and a bit of moisture nourishment.
Settling into the newly exposed hay, the turkeys fluff out their feathers, their long legs tucked beneath them, and settle into oval wells scratched out, letting their meals digest.
The ice fog has reached the bales. The birds have not moved. They stay warm within their feathered cocoons.
Within minutes, the freezing moisture engulfs the space between the haystacks and me. The birds have disappeared within the mist.