The air was cool and refreshing, the yard shaded, tiny splashes of sun here and there, lawn wet with gray, misty dew. High white clouds appeared motionless in the pale blue sky, almost hiding a higher half-moon smiling down from the heavens like a ghost peering around a doorjamb. The previous day had surpassed 90 and the new one, Fourth of July, flags and parties everywhere, promised much of the same; a tolerable high-pressure heat, not oppressive, sort of what I remember on the mean streets of Denver, East Colfax Avenue, July-August 1975, then an impulsive kid with more spunk than wisdom.

Anyway, on that weekend morning, before 7, I had already closed the windows and shut the doors to trap in the cool night air and prepare the house for the impending heat. That done, I walked to the backyard, brookside kennel for Lily and Buddy, always eager for their morning romp, the earlier the better. Complicating matters from my perspective on this day were two turkey broods I’d been dealing with for a couple of weeks in a lush, fragrant, knee-high red clover field where I run the dogs. It’s a given that those turkeys will be there early along the edge of a young, tilled, squash and melon field just before the road makes a sharp right and drops down into what I call Sunken Meadow. I have been careful to keep the dogs away from the two hens and 12 poults for fear that the little ones were vulnerable. Experience told me they could fly well enough to escape, but why test it? I’d rather avoid problems that a frisky pair of Springers can deliver.

It was about this time last year at the same site that I had seen a similar brood flush into the tree line overlooking the Green River. They just sat there, all nine of them, a hen and eight little ones, tantalizing Ringo, my old headstrong bird dog. He barked his fool head off, leaping up the trunk of a massive black cherry tree like a coon hound, only springier and more athletic. Funny thing: now Ringy and that cherry tree are both gone: the dog passing just before Christmas; the tree, felled during that microburst, macroburst or whatever it was that devastated my neighborhood a month or so back, now reduced to a pile of cordwood.

With the dogs boxed on my pickup, I turned onto the farm road leading to my destination and I was somewhat surprised that old Ev Hatch wasn’t out early picking away at his staked tomatoes before the heat struck. Must be he decided to take the holiday off, God bless him, still plenty spry at 79. The man deserves a break. Those plants of his are growing tall and strong these days, seem to be adding three inches daily in the summer swelter. Some of the adjacent hayfields have been scalped, equipment parked along the road, but the clover is impressive — tall, dense and, at that time of day, summer-morning saturated.

As I reached the top of a soft dusty rise on the rutty road, hay rake to my right, I scanned the melon-field edge for sign of turkeys. Sure enough, two motionless brown heads and gray-brown necks poking above the clover. The two hens. No doubt the little ones were nearby, just couldn’t see them until even with the tilled field, where they were foraging like furry little footballs through the soft dirt; scratching for worms or grubs or insects, maybe grasshoppers, which they seem to have a special fondness for. I never slowed down as I passed — the hens erect and motionless — just poked along before taking that sharp right-hand corner leading to an open gate to Sunken Meadow, presumably out of harm’s way.

At the base of the gentle slope I spun my rig around, pointed it outward and parked. The low, placid Green River was producing a soft, soothing rattle, percussion for the sweet birdsong emanating from a tangled, rosebush-bordered wetland. God, that meadow is beautiful. Never gets old or boring. Always something new to spark your curiosity, be it a flower or tree, a critter or the fresh scent of something dead and ripe.

I exited the truck and dropped the tailgate, Buddy whining anxiously, nudging the porta-kennel’s metal-grate door with his nose, scratching at it with his left-front paw. He was intense, wanted out badly. I pulled the pin and he flew to the ground like a missile, sprinting south and reaching the back of the field in world-record time. Lily remained calm, standing patiently, watching the incredible Buddy show from inside her elevated perch. When I released her, she calmly hopped down and sauntered 100 feet west to the gnarly rosebush hedgerow. When I switched my attention to Buddy, I saw him quartering the field back toward me, racing, bounding gracefully through high cover, nose high, front legs curled under him to clear the tall grass and wildflowers. He was searching for rabbits or whatever else was filling his moist nostrils under ideal scenting conditions before the sun rose and baked the field dry.

When I returned my attention to Lily, she was out of sight and I gave her a friendly holler. When she didn’t appear, I called a little louder. Still no response. Then, suddenly I heard some sharp “putts” and saw the two mature hen turkeys flying at me, clearing the tree line along the meadow’s elevated western lip. Yep, Lily had found those turkeys, at least 150 yards and up a level from where we were parked. The first hen to clear the tree line separating the two fields landed high in a tall, ancient, hickory tree within 50 yards of me in the middle of the meadow. I have always called hickories like it smooth-bark as opposed to shagbarks. Different cordwood dealers over the years have also referred to the wood as smooth-bark hickory, but that’s the vernacular, not the official name. Curious, I later snipped a stem of seven leaves and Googled it to make a proper identification; most likely bitternut hickory (also called pignut or swamp hickory). The tree I’m referring to is one of only two out in the middle of the field. Can’t say what the other is (something strange), but the bitternut hickory has many offspring, mature and immature, along the perimeter. The one out in the open appears to be the granddaddy of them all. Some others along the edge are large; not as large.

But, let us not digress … back to the turkeys. The second, trailing hen cleared the field hickory and touched down 80 yards behind it in a tall riverside maple. The poults, all 12 of them emitting soft alarm putts, flew into the first tree line their mothers had cleared, the one separating the upper and lower levels, and perched high within 100 feet of each other, observing the scene from safety. I gave Lily a call with the curled stag-horn whistle on my lanyard and, sure enough, she was soon sprinting enthusiastically down the road into Sunken Meadow, covered in mud, 14 turkeys observing from their lofty perches.

I can’t say for certain whether Lily had seen or smelled those turkeys when we drove through, or if she had been chasing something else, maybe a rabbit or squirrel, got to the crest of the hill overlooking Sunken Meadow and caught wind of the birds from there. My guess is the latter, because I think if she had known the flock was in the upper field, she would have sprinted directly to it when released from her crate. Who knows or cares? The event had made for another interesting Sunken-Meadow field trip. It’s one of many reasons I go there daily; that and the tranquility, the symphony of soft flowing water and birdsong. This time I learned about smooth-bark hickories; now even know them by name, will probably absorb more about them in coming weeks.

It makes me wonder what my next Sunken-Meadow lesson will be. Never know. Maybe I’ll focus on that other tree, the weird one  I’ve passed many times without giving it a second look. Not a tree I’m familiar with … yet.