Maybe I wont need my thermacell this morning- never mind, I do. Last time I was here I never heard a gobble, even with hens crawling all over. Its windy today, one of the last cold fronts of the season will push through this afternoon. And I have to work. Drive. I am lucky to hunt this little block, politeness and good manners won over the old curmudgeon. I waited until a few minutes after sunrise to start calling. After a while hope starts to fade. Until my ears instinctively perk up, only to be unsure of what I heard. A few moments later there is no doubt. A gobble. Mosquitoes seem to vanish. My mind jumps back and forth between excitement and uncertainty.

Hes coming in.

Is he further away now?

Maybe he is facing the other direction.

Uncertainty gradually dissipates until two gobblers are hammering just outside the barbed wire property line, still out of view. My heart pounds in my throat. My eyes dance along cedars frantically looking for movement just as they evolved for. I remember to calm myself and prop the gun barrel on my boot toe in anticipation. I know they will come in.

A horny blue-white head slips under barbed wire and through cedars. Then another. Here they come. I gently ease off the safety. The stock already shouldered, steadied by the support of this half dead navel tree. Another red head slips under the fence, then another. Another. Another. Fowl body language and moods change as the flock starts feeding, hard. Uncertainty creeps back in, inversely proportional to gobbling and strutting. The curmudgeon did mention that his son in law wanted to put a feeder out here...

God dammit.

I know I could probably pick one of the gobblers off at about 45 yards with a good rest. But those shots always seem to go bad. And its illegal. It doesn't feel right. The carpet of bobbing heads get their fill of cracked corn and sweep back towards the property line. They slip back through the cedars, one by one.

I barter with myself, If I can call the boss back in I will take him. Not a peep. I rise from my fruit wood recliner and scan surroundings. Morning light now illuminates the three black legs. Perfect angles separate them from natural surroundings. Another few steps and the bass pro shops logo comes into view. Sitting across from a sad burlap hideout, tattered in the wind.

God dammit.

I convince myself that I did the right thing as trudge through sand back to the truck, to begin my 9 hour work day on the road. My self made creed: Mammals are for meat and birds are for fun. Gobblers under feeders are not fun. My mind goes to certain friends and acquaintances who will tell me I should have shot them both. But I stand on my laurels. I want them strutting, spitting, and at 10 yards.

And that's ok.