It's a spring evening, and the seventh anniversary of my mother's death from cancer, which brought an end to my family, is approaching. I would like to send a message to my friend Margot, who lost her father to AIDS many years ago in the spring, and ask: My friend, how do you keep moving forward? ”
And as I looked out the window of my little red cottage nestled among the Oregon firs and white oaks, I saw my neighbor's flock of wild turkeys climbing up the street. They head for the hills that they use as runways to fly into the trees where they roost at night. The sight is spectacular. Two males in full mating regalia spread their wings, their wattles glowing red and blue in the setting sun, and three drab females walk silently behind. But tonight I was transfixed by a bird chasing them, a quail.
“Jonathan!” I yelled to my husband, and he went out onto the balcony to check on the quail. “Is it part of a herd?” I wonder. “If so, how?”
As they have done every night for years, the turkeys take off en masse, passing over our heads like pterosaurs, over the neighborhood's Subarus and trash cans, and perching on branches 100 feet in the air. The quail wait until the last turkey has roosted. Then, without any fanfare, he slowly surfaced into the oak tree above him and slept for the night.
Jonathan and I had seen this quail sitting on the roof and heard its cry. Birdwatchers say its call sounds like “Chicago!” Chicago! ” Her husband disagrees. He thinks the quail is calling, “Come here!” It's this way! ”
“He lost his herd,” he concluded.
For years, flocks of quail graced our neighborhood. They lived in the blackberry bushes across the road and roamed our garden in small rustling groups, picking at seeds and leaves, shaking their topknot feathers. But this year they are gone.
I realized with a sickening sadness that Jonathan was right – this quail had lost its mate. For some reason they disappeared and he was left behind.
Set your alarm for the next day's turkey roosting time, and when it goes off, grab your binoculars and head outside. As planned, the flock struts down the street, the male spreading his flight wings and scraping the asphalt furiously, while the female pauses to look at her neighbor's rhododendrons. The quail continues to run on its small legs. Again, he flies into an oak tree for the night, waiting for the turkeys to roost. Now I'm even more curious and on social media.
“What's going on with this quail?” Ask your local birding group on Facebook, along with a photo. This post received so many comments that the site awarded me the “Top Level Contributor” badge. The answers range from the scientific to the funny. One man explains that quail and turkeys represent small and large species of the order Galliformes, land birds that feed on the ground and move in flocks for protection.
Another said, “My interpretation of that photo is that the quail was rich and hired a few muscle birds to protect it from kidnapping. Even a free-ranging cat would think twice about an ambush. ” Good call. There are a lot of free-ranging cats in my neighborhood.
One woman says, “You need a limerick or a haiku to understand that.”
Another woman quickly responded:
A quail wanders around.
She scouts the hills for turkeys.
She found a husband.
I reached out to ornithologist James Maley, who I heard about on the science podcast Ologies, on Instagram. He explains that quail and turkeys have similar vocalizations and behaviors. “A friend was just telling me that the same thing is happening to flocks of peacocks and turkeys,” he writes about the phenomenon in my neighborhood. “I think they see each other as friends.”
The next week, as I was driving home with a car full of groceries filled with grief for my dead mother, I spotted a turkey just over the street from my house. Without quail. When my heart sank, he was there. It had trotted out of the English ivy in someone's front yard and was running down the hill towards the turkey as it disappeared around the corner.
Now, an entire community is invested in the well-being of this single quail that has enough momentum to roll with a turkey 25 times its size. Neighbors compare sightings. We post bi-weekly updates on Facebook and receive an enthusiastic response.
When I posted my latest photo, members of my bird watching group commented on it. “Family. It's more than blood. He was adopted.”
Her words make me think about courage and resilience. After we have finished our initial mourning, we always have the option of walking out on our thin little legs to find something new to replace what is gone. It's not ideal, but it's manageable. It may even bring us joy.
I want to stop on the roof and shout, “This way!” It's this way! ” into the void left by her mother. And maybe, if I'm lucky, a passing herd will find me and offer protection and friendship and inspiration to keep going.
Melissa Hart is the author most recently of Better With Books: 500 Diverse Books to Ignite Empathy and Encourage Self-Acceptance in Tweens and Teens.