If you’ve lived in Lamorinda for more than a week, you’ve had the encounter. You’re driving down a quiet residential street, probably running five minutes late for something, when traffic comes to a complete halt. Not for construction. Not for an accident. For turkeys.
A dozen wild turkeys have decided that this particular stretch of asphalt is the perfect place to hold a staff meeting.
The Unwritten Rules
After years of observation, I’ve noticed that locals have developed an intricate, unspoken protocol for these situations:
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You do not honk. We don’t honk at turkeys here. That’s for people who haven’t yet accepted their place in the local food chain.
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You wait. The turkeys will move when they’re ready. They are never ready.
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You make eye contact with the driver across from you. You share a knowing smile that says, “Yes, we are both being held hostage by poultry. This is fine.”
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You take a photo. Not for Instagram. For proof, when you explain to your boss why you were late.
The Tom Problem
The males — the big guys with the elaborate fan displays — are the real traffic engineers. I watched one in Orinda last week spend a full three minutes examining his reflection in someone’s car door before deciding, apparently, that he was beautiful enough to proceed.
He was. But still.
Coexistence
Here’s the thing: we wouldn’t have it any other way. In a world of traffic apps and optimized routes and everyone in a hurry, there’s something deeply Lamorinda about being forced to pause because nature said so.
The turkeys aren’t going anywhere. Neither are we. Might as well enjoy the show.
Just don’t try to feed them. That’s how you end up with a turkey that knows where you live.