Amid a late week of significant snow accumulation here in the inland Pacific Northwest, a turkey call greeted me from above the house as I fetched firewood in the predawn. I think I know who is calling. She strolled my upper meadow several times yesterday, occasionally pecking for food, but mostly with the air of proprietorship a landowner has as she surveys here gardens several times each day as if not only to see what progress her plants have made but also–at least as much–to cheer her blooming companions on and to applaud the miracle of her own efforts, or so it seemed to me because I felt she was staking her ground, establishing her priority rights to that small newly cleared slope that affords proximity to my feeders and to bramble thickets that offer good hiding and shelter for chicks, nice rich soil filled with worms, grubs and bugs, native grasses and lovely sun all within a short trot of the woods, where she had berthed for the night. I welcome her company and easy companionship as COVID again bares its claws, but I do hope she keeps her own little Idaho private because an entire flock of her brethren is far less lovely.
Again it snows for the seventh consecutive day, totaling thus far about eighteen inches of very light lovely whiteness, an ongoing stockpiling that is beyond odd so late in the season. The first days of snow were amusing, whimsical, and drew me out into frenzied excursions with my ATV plow. As the novelty waned, I grew weary of the sapped gray light and heavy sky, but today it all simply is. This morning’s snow is languid, almost half-hearted, drifting slowly down like motes of dust rater than water-laden missives to the drought-thirsty earth. Turkey and I are each content in our own nesting spots, the trees are frilled and laced with snow that will tumble with great thuds to slowly, deeply penetrate the earth that needs it so dearly. I can’t imagine being so petty as to begrudge the earth, the gardens that I love, having this last full draught of winter.
April 15, 2022