A low rumble rolls in from over the lake, and keeps going. It seems endless, so at first I think it cannot be thunder. But then a rumble comes again. Thunder? I don't remember hearing that it was supposed to rain.
It's warm and sunny, but it seems like the front is coming in fast. Dark clouds hang out over the lake and are coming our way.
Ben, Fenris and I head down the trail to complete our morning trap checking ritual. It's 57 degrees, and a warm breeze carries the smell of spring: pine needles warmed in the sun, and dark punky earth. As we crest the dune at the third set of traps, six turkey burst into flight. Fenris just stands there in amazement. We continue on.
Again, all three sets are empty.
In an immature forest, where young trees are still surrounded by high shrubs, we hear the fussing of what must be 20 birds. Upon closer inspection we see red dots upon their heads, and a reddish breast--almost looking like it has been stained from eating too many berries. Common redpolls. A mixed flock of males and females foraging together. One flys nearer to get a better look at us, but is gone in an instant.
The wind changes. Suddenly, the breeze is cold with the smell of winter. We quicken our pace.
Twenty minutes later, more thunder. This time, the rumble is answered by a turkey claiming his territory. Again: rumble, gobble. This goes on and on, and we laugh to ourselves.
The rain holds off until we reach home.