It is spring dusk, and the seventh anniversary of my mother’s death from cancer, the death that marked the end of my biological family, is approaching. I want to text my friend Margot, who lost her father to AIDS last spring, and ask her: “How can we survive this terrible loss? Bestie, how can we keep moving forward?”
And then I look out the window of my little red cabin tucked between the spruces and white oaks of Oregon and see the flock of wild turkeys making their way across the street. They head to a hill which they use as a runway for their journey into the trees where they roost for the night. They are stunning: two males in full mating gear with wings outstretched, their wattles gleaming red and blue in the sunset while three faded females step quietly behind them. But this evening, I was startled by the bird following them, a single quail.
“Jonathan!” I shouted to my husband, and he went out onto the balcony to check the presence of the quail. “Is he part of the herd?” I wonder. “And if so, how?”
As it has every evening for years, each turkey starts running, then sails over our heads like a pterodactyl, over our neighbors’ cars and garbage cans, and lands on branches a hundred feet in the air. Quail wait for the last turkey to roost. Then, without fuss, he gently rises to the oak tree above him to sleep for the night.
Jonathan and I have seen this quail sitting on roofs and heard its calls. Birders say the call sounds like “Chi-ca-He goes! Chi-California-He goesMy husband disagrees. He thinks the quail was calling: “Done.” here! more here!
“He lost his flock,” he concludes.
For many years, a group of quails graced our neighborhood. They live in the blackberry forest just down the road and roam our yards in a ruffle of little feathers swaying with top knots as they eat seeds and leaves. But this year, they’re gone.
I realized with sickening sadness that Jonathan was right, this quail had lost its companions. For one reason or another they disappeared, and he was left behind.
I set my alarm for turkey time the next evening, and when it goes off I head outside with my binoculars. On schedule, the swarm struts down the street, the males spreading out their flight feathers and dramatically scraping the asphalt, and the females pausing to browse the neighbors’ rhododendron plants. The quail runs on its little legs to keep up with it. Again, he waits until the turkeys are roosting and then flies to his oak tree for the night. Now, most curiously, I turn to social media.
“What’s going on with this quail?” Ask in the regional birding group on Facebook, including photo. The post is receiving so many comments that the site is giving me a “core contributor” badge. The answers range from the scientific to the funny. One of the men explains that quail and turkeys represent the smallest and largest species in the order Galliformes, which are land birds that feed on the ground and travel in groups for protection.
Another wrote: My interpretation of that picture is that the quail is rich and has hired some muscle birds to protect against kidnapping. Even a free-range cat might have second thoughts about an ambush. Good call. My neighborhood is full of loose cats.
“We need a comic strip or a haiku to understand it,” says one woman.
Another woman immediately answers:
Lone quail roam.
In the hills spy turkeys.
She found her husbands.
I connect on Instagram with ornithologist James Maley, who I heard on the science podcast “Ologies.“ He explains that quail and turkeys share similar sounds and actions. “A friend was just telling me about the same thing happening with peacocks and a flock of turkeys,” he writes about the phenomenon in my neighborhood. “I think they see each other as friends.”
As I drove home the next week with a car full of groceries and a heart full of grief for my deceased mother, I saw turkeys a block away from my house. Without quail. My heart breaks, and then there he is, scurrying out of the English ivy in someone’s front yard and racing down the hill toward the turkeys disappearing around the corner.
Now, the entire community is invested in the well-being of this quail with enough chutzpah to eat turkeys 25 times its size. Neighbors compare scenes. I post updates every two weeks on Facebook to enthusiastic response.
After I posted my latest photo, a member of my birding group commented. “Family. It’s more than just blood. He’s adopted.”
Her words make me think about courage and resilience—how we always have a choice, once our initial mourning is over, to set out on our skinny little legs to find a new hut, an alternative to the one that’s gone. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. May it bring us joy.
I want to sit on my roof and shout: “Here! Here!” In the void left by my mother. Then, perhaps, if I’m lucky, a passing flock will find me, offering me protection, camaraderie and inspiration to keep moving forward.
Melissa Hart He is the author of Better with Books: 500 Diverse Books to Spark Empathy and Encourage Self-Acceptance in Tweens and Teens.