The bullets flew all morning, a cacophony of death and destruction. By noon, the worst was over, leaving half the trees in the forest riddled with holes.
The turkeys fared better than the oaks this year, although that wasn't always the case. This time, even the stupidest of the birds remembered he could move. Trees had a disadvantage there.
How have I survived to reach seven years old?
Anytime there are humans with weapons in the woods is a good day to roll in some mud and pretend to be a log.
Besides, I'm a turkey vulture, not a turkey.
