Faint streaks of pink already stretch over the mountains. I’d lingered over that second cup of coffee too long.
I shove shells into the shotgun and set off at a fast walk to my listening spot nearly half a mile away. Whip-poor-wills whistle a lonely farewell song to the night as the strengthening voices of diurnal birds fill the woods. I haven’t heard a crow yet, and that’s good news. In my experience, crows and turkeys usually clock in at the same time.