8

 At first last spring there were seven, the mother and six chicks. Then the mother and five. Then the mother and four. By September there were still  four and they were almost as big as their mother. Then, at the end of September, four.  Now in November those four still stick together.

We live in a suburban residence, not in the middle of a woods, but there are trees, shrubs and natural areas all around. Other buildings. And highways. We see the four, sometimes joined by a few others, at least every other day, always together, always headed in the same direction. Always together, and I wonder about that. 

Why do those turkeys stay together as they do? Why do they always go in the same direction at the same time? For that matter, why does any animal do what it does? Why do salmon swim upstream at a certain time of the year? Why do birds fly south? And then a half year later fly back again? Why anything? To say instinct is to say we don’t know. To say it’s in their genes is to say we don’t know. Actually, we don’t know  very much about anything: turkeys, fish, wolves, trees, worms, virus, ourselves. 

We learn more each moment. That is what we do. We build edifices of knowledge, and as we stand, higher each moment, we look afar . . . and all is mystery.