![Turkeys by the woodpile](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5mKl50JH4k_KG5zFK2KUJ7jfMguQ_H6y3QTkjiviApalhdwGAWrS8XHfv4hseV7NXL5W8xc9vmzmngulM2h2zDl7anOUnIowJX1YseF8MoQBhh-LoDkw33kS8hyphenhyphenw1eU3QTubPQ/s400/turkeys8.jpg)
Turkeys have been crossing the ridge here again this week. It's been several years since they visited regularly. Once, several years ago, while I was canning tomatoes in the kitchen, I turned around to see a turkey hen standing on the doorstep, stretched to her full height, feathers puffed, apparently staring right at me. We both squawked in alarm.
![Turkey, looking and listening](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8CID_QXUi481ON2mdKCPe7ex_uB8iHZfT-bTin45j-7VkIYsdpaQ4YyALQcWMpswak0XUzuBaKJ_5Uv0B8AOa2Tc50-DBZ3YqGENVYzhYgKXd5xiA4VyJKoOxrSWLu9JnMads1w/s400/turkey1.jpg)
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