The Matchbox Siren Call of Love

Male Turkey are very much like most still-single over 50 human males, going through life with an avoidant attachment style as their coping mechanism from their disappointing childhood. The trauma of a divorce or three. Our screwed up generation.

Avoiding danger, avoiding other mean male turkey that want to take them on.  Maybe they drank too much from the wine barrel.  Maybe they're just drunk on their own egos.

Eagles are actually assholes.  They are scavengers.  I've actually seen the infamous Osprey get the fish stolen by the Eagle dance at Williams Lake north of Pagosa Springs. It was something else.

While Benjamin Franklin didn't actually suggest the Turkey be our national bird, he did observe this in a letter to his daughter in 1784:

"I am on this account not displeased that the figure is not known as an Eagle, but looks more like a Turkey. For the truth, the Turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America… He is besides, though a little vain and silly, a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his farm yard with a red coat on."

A mature male Turkey is indeed of a character most hens can get interested in.  But she's only going to pick one.

We female humans could learn something from the female turkey.  First off, hens tend to flock together in groups.  Together they look out for one another, forage together, sound the alarm. They take turns on   It's only certain times of the years that the males of any age flock with them, mostly in the fall, as they move lower and get ready for the winter.  Stronger together.

But spring. Oh spring.  Spring fever indeed.

First off, female turkey (hens) inherently know their worth. They are picky, and they're not falling for the first Tom to come dancing by... they're picky.

And the Males are aggressive and flamboyant, and putting on their best show to be The One.  They fight. They race to be Johnny on the spot.

Only the young jakes are hanging together, wishing they had a chance at getting laid. They know they have to wait until it's their time, their year, so they watch their elders like young punks do.

The Toms, they're on testosterone to the Nth power.  They posture.  They preen. And then they turn it all on, tail feathers on display in all their resplendence.

But if they sense danger, they still run.  They fly up in the tree and look from afar.
They get chased, they're OUT.

But the hens just have to be.  To peck around, announce their presence, make a few clucks, and the Toms come running.

So my friend Anne.  As you try to chase Fuckhead down, I send you a gift.

The Matchbox call is pretty simple to operate. Certainly easier than those ones you put in your mouth and try to get it to whistle.  I could never get that to work.  (I can, as May West says,  put my lips together and blow.)

You're going to just drag the top from right to left in a say, four or five short chirps.  You're going to do this and wait.  At least 10 minutes.

Then softly call again.

If you get too anxious, and you try to over-chirp, he's going to believe you're full of shit and not really a female.  He's going to run.  It's an exercise in patience.  Kind of like humans.

Post yourself carefully, without movement ( be hidden if possible) as they come out of the tree in the morning, and be patient. 

Still and patient, Fuckhead will be coming straight to you like a siren's call. 
All you have to do is be you.

Quit your chasing, call him quietly, to you like the magical mermaid of lore.

The One only comes willingly.