21 August—I had surprise visitors at breakfast this morning. I hadn’t seen my wild turkey neighbors since the poults were knee-high to a jake and they were parading at the bottom of the meadow, in the company of some whitetail deer. I’m relieved that they’ve all—turkeys and deer—survived predation by ravens, crows, hawks, skunks, raccoons, foxes, and coyotes—not to mention house cats and evil hunters who kill for the thrill.

The turkeys probably came up here to go to church. It is Sunday, after all. They looked like they were headed for St. Michael’s Episcopal or St. Anthony’s Catholic. They’re next door to one another and there’s no meaningful difference, when you get down to it. But then the turkey-in-chief evidently experienced an epiphany and hopped up on an ash stump to spread the godless gospel.

All I could hear was some gobbledygook, so I can’t tell you why the family ultimately decided to pass on a mass and instead headed back across the meadow to God’s godless country . . .