Fourteen turkeys, all hens, each morning make a stop at my place to eat. Brunch, I imagine, it is, since it’s mid-morning when they come up the bluff and begin scratching about the yard, finding sustenance. What a gift it is to watch them.
But it’s also been painful for my heart. Because one of them has a hurt leg. She hops on her left, while she pushes off with her right. She’s smaller than the rest.
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