A Rafter of Turkeys, and a November Bat

Wild Turkeys

Wild Turkeys (Meleagris gallopavo) were reintroduced into our heavily suburbanized watershed 15 or so years ago.  I know the individual who released the farm-raised wild stock in a county park downstream of my natural area.  The turkeys have securely established themselves, though their population density fluctuates annually.  The immigration of a healthy coyote (Canis laterans) population three years ago, which I thought at the time might doom the flocks, doesn't seem to have had a significant impact.

This year has been a banner year. 

Three hens coalesced their broods at the end of the summer and now there are at least 30 yearlings in my yard most of the time.  It doesn't help that I feed them, of course, but I like to enjoy their beautiful colors and their distinctly prehistoric gestalt.  Though they will eat whole corn, they prefer oil sunflower (naturally), and it gets expensive feeding 30 turkeys after a while.  People ask me if they're wild, and I tell them the flock's history and explain that feeding them has made them almost like pets.

I learned over the weekend, by the way, that a group of turkeys is called a "rafter."

  
Saturday afternoon, Kali and I went for a walk (at the county park where the turkeys were introduced, incidentally).  There, flying over an open field, was a bat gleaning insects. It was 55 degrees, and November 20, and there was a bat in mid-afternoon.  We watched  for several minutes while it cruised the air in search of prey.  We didn't know whether to be amazed or saddened, since the sighting was so strange, unexpected, and out of character for a bat.

Summer Perfection

Last Friday evening, July 3, 2009, was absolutely perfect in my corner of the Mid-Atlantic. After dinner, my wife and I went for an early-evening walk in the natural area nearby. The sun was getting low on the horizon and it imbued the tall grasses along the trail with gold brilliance (not nearly adequately captured in my image here). There was a steady breeze, humidity was low, and the temperature was about 70 degrees (70 degrees on July 3!). Off to the southeast, a 2/3-full moon was rising, and bats were beginning to patrol the skies just a few feet above our heads.

Why can't all of summer be just like this heavenly evening?