In the clouded half-light of dawn, I thread my way along the ledges of the canyonito.  Just past those gnarly rocks is a little spring: only a seep in the summer but after the rains of the past week a trickle of water as cool and clear as an April morning is dribbling across the pebbles that fan out at the mouth where this flow joins the main creek.  I follow the trickle the ten or twelve yards to its source.  At the place where the water bubbles out of the mud, a pair of turkey wings -- primary feathers intact, bones stripped of meat but still attached at the shoulder -- lies like a fallen angel.  The wings are spread open, outward, as if to embrace the leaden sky overhead.  I search the area: no sign of a struggle, no footprints in the mud, not even a stray feather or piece of down.  The turkey must have been killed somewhere else -- a bird can never be dispatched, even by a something as clean as shotgun pellet, without leaving some feathers or blood behind.  By the absence of any remaining offal -- no creature, not even a possum, will eat a turkey claw -- I assume that most of the bird was consumed somewhere else.  Something -- either the predator that killed this turkey, or a secondary feeder cleaning up what the original killer left behind -- brought these wings to this spot to finish up his meal.  I imagine him lapping the sweet water after gnawing the sinew and stringy meat, every bit of anything edible, off of the bones.  Not a coyote for sure: a big canine like that would have never left these bones -- and the marrow inside -- intact.  A coyote may have killed the bird, eaten his fill, and then something else -- a possum or skunk or coon -- took over.  A turkey dinner for two: both animals now probably sleep soundly and with full bellies, giving thanks for the gift of meat to stave off hunger for another day or two.