Following the sound–two hawks together in the field next door–I spot the mama turkey. Can’t see the little ones but she’s obviously on alert, bending low, her head spins round and extends at my approach. Focusing on the shrieks I zero in on one of the predators, perched atop a broken trunk of birch. The hawk swoops down directly aimed at mama turkey; she flies up a few feet to meet it in a clash of wings. He flies back, calling to his brother. I run back to the house and call out Jim.
The two hawks keep their screeching up–though I would think they would be silent. The turkey–I think that she’s alone out there, the chicks likely safely hidden–gets nervous at my approach. One by land, two by air, and Jim too within her sights. I can’t stand the idea of doing nothing to help her. I circle wide around her to the trees and lift one hawk, then the other from their perches. They arc around me, spiriling higher, the perimeters encircling mama turkey and me, though she doesn’t know that we are in this fight together, and I am on her side. Eventually, both hawks leave and fly back across the road.
You’re welcome, I say and nod to her as Jim and I walk back to the house. They’ll get them some time, he says; they’re young and just don’t know how to hunt. They’re hungry.
What right had I to intervene? Two young hawks are on their own and trying to survive. And here am I, protecting eight young turkeys. I had no right to intervene in a natural battlefield of survival.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology