by Cheri Sabraw
I have surrendered to the tom turkeys this time of year when their fancy turns from pooping all over my driveway to the ladies. The lengths to which the toms will go to attract and finally mate with a hen are evolutionary at best and clownish at worst.
Take this group of four puffy noblemen ( or so they think…)
First, they must posture and meditate, making themselves as large as possible. Catching the afternoon sun on their tail feather fan helps their sense of Self.
Then, out of order, they begin a circular parade that is all about them–their feathers, their one-legged pose, their robotic Hokey-Pokey (shimmy to the right and shimmy to the left)–all while holding their breaths in order to push every fiber and feather into an enormous love machine.
Then, at the behest of the lead love-maker, they begin their march to sex.
“Yes, you heard me, ” Moe silently directs, practicing his machismo as he, Curly and Larry head toward the soft creek bed.
“That little gal over there can’t help but be magnetized toward my colorful face, big breast, and of course, those red balls at the end of my neck. God, I am so hot.
“Hey, you aren’t the only massive dark meathead, Moe, ” Curley and Larry chortle.
“Well, hey there, girls. Look on up instead of down. Not enough for you yet? Let me show you my backside. That ought to trigger your hormones.”
Hello you little wild cutie…are you heading for the creek?
[ Green piece of pottery speaks ]: “Hey there buster, it’s been very lonely here on the patio this rainy and cold winter. I am interested in you. You can see that my cup runneth over for you. Come on up…”