I'm sitting in the downstairs office of my computer guru — we'll call him Al, since his name is Al — getting my hard drive cleaned up, when Al turns from the monitor and says, "You've seen wild turkeys before?" We've talked birds before, Al and I. There's plenty of time to talk while the computer cleaning system, and Al, do their work. And I like birds. But I perk up now for I really like wild turkeys. Nothing seems more New England and pilgrimish than a rafter (I googled this once my computer was back and running; this is the correct term) of wild turkeys waddling across a field.  While I do see wild turkeys from time to time, I don't see them enough.  When Al tipped his head toward the large window over his work counter, I hopped off my stool eager for a look.

Outside the window a female, brown and mostly bland with only very subtle glints of copper, stalked and pecked over the back yard. I'd seen this before. But my jaw fell open, literally, when I caught sight of her partner. A large male in full display toddled about five feet behind her.  His wattle bright red against the full spread of his tail feathers, he was a perfect rendition of the cardboard turkeys that materialized in November in the middle of the kindergarten bulletin boards when I was in school (and probably still do).

I stared at him. He was absolutely magnificent. But soon the dynamics of what was happening, or supposed to be happening, between the two of them became even more interesting than his plumage. The male turkey waddled and strutted self-importantly, one way then a little the other way, with the net result that he went basically nowhere. He appeared totally infatuated with himself and his strutting, and to have no goal other than to be the center of his own world.

The female turkey continued to get her work done, searching the yard and the bordering woods for sustenance.

I tipped my head toward the male turkey displaying himself, and said to Al, "That's all for her, right?"

Al nodded. "He'll keep doing that, hoping when she is ready, he'll be the one."

"But she's not paying any attention," I said. "She hasn't looked at him once. Not once."

Al nodded again.

"That's absolutely hysterical," I said.

Sagely, Al, who I don't really know and who doesn't really know me, just nodded one more time.

I watched, spellbound.  When it was time for me to turn back to the monitor with Al, and decide which cookies to keep and which to crumble, the male turkey was in the woods about 20 feet away from the female, behind enough trees that she probably couldn't see him if she tried—and she hadn't tried. Still in full display, he preened and tottered, looking as self-impressed, and clueless, as ever.

At dinner, I told my son and husband about the turkeys.  When I got to the part about the female ignoring the male, my husband chimed in with the crack, "Uh huh.  Isn't that always the case!"   

The image of that male popped into my mind, so sure he was doing just the right thing to make his lady happy, and from all angles, looking like he couldn't be more off the mark.  I had to grin, and agree.  "Yep.  Isn't that always the case."