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.
Causes Louise Young Supports
articulation of indigenous rights (organization: Cultural Survival)
sustainable, renewable, and independent energy sources