(We have a wild yard…and the turkeys appreciate it. Here’s how a one eats seeds!)
I wanted chickens when we moved into our Oregon house. I imagined a handful of hens with names. I pictured myself scattering grain and enjoying soft clucking at my feet as I collected warm eggs. But after lots of discussions with my husband, I had to admit that I travel too much to fulfill the kind of care and commitment domestic chickens need.
This lack of time for gardening is also why we haven’t developed our back yard beyond putting in my art studio and a little path to it. The “wild yard” is a lifestyle choice: we’ve let the land go to the pollinators. Allowed the grass to grow and seed, the blackberries to sprawl, and the wildlife to come and go as they please.
I like to think the universe was fulfilling my wish for chickens when six jumbo turkey hens showed up, not only to strip the long grass of seeds, but to claim the massive Douglas fir overlooking our pond as their nightly roost. Each evening, as shadows deepen across the yard, “the girls” arrive from wherever they’ve spent the day foraging.
They took a break from our place during the winter and spring, and went elsewhere for about six months—fending off the aggressive advances of the big, blue-headed toms, and raising their chicks. But this summer the girls are back!
During our granddaughters’ visit, we all gathered on the deck to watch the evening ritual of their flight into the sleep tree.
They gather at the top of the yard after pecking around for a bit. On some invisible signal, one by one they beat their wings a couple of times, stick out their long skinny necks, and gallop down the slope. With a thundering rush of flying feathers they launch, a sight that defies both physics and dignity. They flap furiously, somehow ascending, and branch by branch they land with a thump in the giant fir, wobbling wildly as they grab onto boughs that sway and sag at their weight.
Each one finds her place; gradually the tree goes still. They settle in with small adjustments and soft clucks. High above the pond, silhouetted against the dimming sky, they become part of the tree itself—lumpy shapes among dark branches, safe from any predator.
Morning’s departure is gentler. As dawn breaks, the hens flutter down into our meadow, just outside my bedroom window. They chortle and cluck gently to each other in low, intimate voices, checking in about quality of sleep and physical ailments. Once all have landed, they set off rapidly in a group, with the busy demeanor of women commuting to work.
I think about the chickens I never got. Those birds would have been dependent for their very lives on me, contained by fences I erected.
But the turkeys belong to themselves. They choose this tree, this yard, this place to return to each evening. They could roost anywhere in these coastal forests, but they come here. Something about this spot feels right to them; safe. Home.
Kind of how it’s becoming that way for me…
I stand at the window and smile. I wanted chickens. I got wild turkeys, and sharing life with them is a good, cozy thing indeed.
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How about YOU? Did you ever keep chickens or other domestic animals? How did that add to a sense of being cozy at home?
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