I drive in a little too far without headlights. I park the truck a little further out than needed. I got here a little earlier than necessary. Peace of mind comes with not being in a rush for once, I begin the meditation of a silent walk in among darkness. Headlamps are shunned and eyes adjust.

At the close of deer season, each year I am excited for spring turkey. The pressure of trying to get a deer for the freezer leaves me selfish and stingy with hunting opportunities and meat. Turkey hunting is refreshing when compared to silent and wary deer. A horny gobbler can become so brazen he is borderline intimidating. Spitting and staring. They know something is not right with this wad of camouflage, but after a few weary seconds, air sacs re-inflate and snoods drip upon masculine breast. They disregard fear to fight and fuck like adolescent men. Their spring bravado leads a hunter from thick cover and hairy swamps to lonely dirt roads and groomed meadows.

I have been comfortable in the dark silence for 20 minutes now, reclining under my valencia tree. I figure these turkeys to inhabit a cypress head that creates a seam along a wandering irrigation canal between grapefruit and orange. I have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing exact fly-down locations. The sun begins to scrub away the last cold morning of Florida spring. Orange light and three simultaneous gobbles race across crisp air, From the cypress head as predicted. Answered from behind me by a mouthy lone gobbler. The chorus and refrain continues for several minutes from perches, then furthered from a well mowed stage and a cypress back drop.

I talk with slate meekly. Before I know it two gobblers are screaming at me, from just behind a ditch with a 10ft girth and a 3ft berm. I shoulder my gun and try to imagine where red heads might crest over. After a few minutes the gobbler’s intensity slows to a stop as they wander off.

Over an hour has passed, avian dialog has seized. Internal dialog has been bargained with, suppressed, and bet against. I eventually decide to slowly stalk the direction they trailed off. With each passing tree row creeps in a slow rhythm. As I crest each row, I observe the length of it for signs of life. I make grand plans for the mile-long skirt around the outer canals, to head off the rafter. If I can get between them and the state land quietly, I might have a chance. I crest another end tree carefully, only to notice a mass of erect feathers, shimmering, variegated and taut.

I duck with my back to orange foliage like I am reloading in a fire fight. The silent strutter is 60 yards down the row. Pupils crest the outermost leaves of the tree and he becomes focused in view, the heating sun burns pinholes through his thick fan. A display of white veins and marabou shield his head. I hunch up against the end tree and frantically fumble for striker and slate. If I see him from here, he will be close. Dry wood scrapes rock gently for a modest yelp. I set my pen on the ground and grab my ready sword. I know he wont gobble. He is either coming in or not. I just have to be ready. I have know idea how much time passes, surely hours.

I eventually convince myself to move, under the condition that I first yelp again. For the distant chance of a shock gobble, or a new gobble. Nothing. In stealth, I tuck slate and striker away. Before I can stand up, I hear it-- Drumming. No noise is more synonymous with good things to come. A wild turkey’s drumming is fetishized by a small and dedicated fraternity.

I flick off the safety and eyes dart to every blue hole in the thick limb, searching for movement. Finally they lock on to a white head as it crests the edge of foliage and immediately fades to pink. Bravado gives way to nerves. An engorged head raises up with concern 12 yards away, in unison with a 12 gauge barrel. His snood loses flaccidity and I have more time than I envisioned. His neck goes limp before his first step in the opposite direction, thanks to a healthy does of number five lead. He drops rather motionlessly. I secure his head with my heel. The dinosaur commences obligated death rattles. Prehistoric talons unknowingly rip at rubber boots. Once subsided, spurs are secured and hoisted out.

A ritual of appreciation and admiring commences before memories and meat are claimed.

Two birds per season is not enough.