Baby Turkeys

Each one about the size of an adult pigeon, but taller, fluffier and…white.

I turned off 9W onto the road where I live. There in the tall grass at the edge of the woods, three or was it four, baby turkeys. Wild turkeys inhabit the woods on my road all the way down to the river occasionally taking over the road entirely. While I wait they parade along the pavement crossing to the other side, walking purposefully, reminding me to not hurry.

But these were not wild turkeys, these were somebody’s babies. At the side of the road, I checked the remaining muffin and the half croissant in the Bread Alone bag. The bakery made a mistake on my lunch order and had filled my bag with extra pastry to make amends. As I stepped out of the car, the little creatures rushed toward me fearlessly. They gobbled up the pastry I scattered on the ground and looked at me expectantly as if they were accustomed to being cared for by humans. I’m guessing a gate had been left open, and they had wandered off.

Should I pick them up and try to find their owner? If no one claimed them, what would I do with three or four baby turkeys? I’m a terrible caretaker, lacking the natural human impulse to rescue little animals. I doubted my ability to save them. I’m barely able to save myself.

Should I carry them to my house, a quarter mile down the road where these same woods are swarming with foxes, coyote, raccoons, hawks, and owls? Surely a predator would break in and carry them off from whatever shelter I manage to provide for them.

Their fate would be the same if I left them here.