Yield to turkeys on parade
By
Paul Roselli / Environmentalist
 |
| Photo by Will Collette. I once saw a dozen turkeys parade out of the kettle hole behind my house to the crest of the moraine in front. Cued by the big Tom leader, they leapt from the crest and flew across Route 1, heading for Ninigret Pond. I expected to hear car crashes but fortunately, there were none. |
But there they stood. Eleven of them all banking on what the first in line would do next. Watching patiently. Judging as if life depended on the next move. And in this case it did.
I
was on my way to a dinner date. Driving along I-295, I was absorbed in the
strict attention necessary for driving, every once in a while thinking about
the speed of things and all that had to be accomplished over the next few
weeks, but concentrating on the necessity of paying attention.
But at this moment I remembered why I was traveling, that a good friend wanted to celebrate the day before Daylight Savings Time. My friend celebrates anything of note. Life has a way of catching up on you and with her, life-changing complications were fast approaching. I was the leader of sorts, having moved into the slow lane trying to extend mileage from a resource that had skyrocketed in price over the past few days.
Not wanting to give aggressors
pushing war into a sovereign nation any benefit from my hard earned-money, I
went the speed limit. Not wanting to give the slightest bit, not a penny, to a
war machine bent on killing and overthrowing democracy, in the slow lane I
shifted to cruise control to squeeze every bit of mileage out of a gallon of gas.
I
saw the turkeys ahead, nervously moving back and forth. Their leader inching
ever so close from the narrows of the breakdown lane into oncoming traffic. I
knew what the leader wanted to do: cross three lanes of traffic, then go to the
medium strip, and then cross three more lanes to get to the other side. An
impossible situation for anyone. Impossible for this group of birds — this
rafter of turkeys. Impossible, I said.
The
leader must have seen my hesitation at first and then saw that I slowed down. A
signal perhaps. Others around me must have seen this hesitation as well; the
turkeys noticed and then others saw what I saw, what seemed to be all at the
same time. Brake lights on, first me, then the cars to the left and behind me
too slowed down. We all came to a stop. Not a rolling stop. I mean a stop.
I’ve
seen turkeys cross the road before. Any movement, any at all, and the turkeys
turn around and go back. A learned behavior from watching others? An experience
shared from a mishap that ended in disaster? I don’t know. But I have seen this
before.
One after another, cars behind me and to my left came to a stop. Creating our own flock, our own caravan of cars paused in unison. Waiting for their movement. Waiting for the turkeys to make the next move. There was no horn blaring. No signs of road rage. No discontent.
For that moment, time and space ceased from our consciousness. The speed of things stopped. We, and here I do mean we, marveled at what the leader did next. She took the first step onto the highway, seeing the oncoming vehicles coming no more. Then, one after the other, all 11 of them paraded in front of us getting to the other side, in a hurry for sure.
But getting there safely. I watched the
first in line as she maneuvered well off the road, checking her flock and
metaphorically, I imagined, releasing a sigh of relief, that she made it again
across this busiest of highways. Turning to each of them with a look of
confidence and moving quickly to the next hurdle; three more lanes and then to
wooded areas safe and free from these quickest of human-made machines.
As soon as the final turkey crossed the road, we, too, breathed a sigh of relief. No one was hurt. No one in those cars thought themselves more important than this flock of turkeys. No one’s schedule in that group of cars and trucks was so critical that we could not wait the few seconds it took in safely allowing this group of turkeys to cross the highway.
No one forced us to stop. But we
did. Our busy existence was still intact. I smiled at that moment, and I expect
others did the same. I knew instinctively, that the turkeys would safely make
it to the other side of the road. Their leader would make sure of it. They had
to or this story would not have a happy ending.
As we moved again, I felt that the event did represent a shared experience for those in attendance that day. Few of us, total strangers in this case, get to share anything related to the natural world. We are too busy to do something out of the ordinary.
Traveling at 60 or 70 mph in a world where speed is often
the norm and often is demanded, its nearly impossible to slow down, stop,
notice, and take part. But in this moment, we did share something. We shared a
view of nature trying to cope with the likes of us, with our speedy selves, and
we in turn appreciated their audacity.
Paul
Roselli is the president of the Burrillville Land Trust.
