The Night They All Disappeared
It was fifteen minutes before sunset.
No birds.
No sound.
Not a honk, not a rustle, not a single entitled demand for mealworms. Nothing.
Usually, when they’re hundreds of yards out, I can still hear them. They are not quiet animals. Especially when they’re responding to my calls — which, on a normal evening, sounds less like a woman summoning birds and more like a hostage negotiation conducted across open terrain.
But tonight, I was calling into silence.
Fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Then thirty.
By 6:30, they should have been penned up. The next fifteen minutes felt like an hour.
The Search
I walked both neighbors’ properties. I drove the gravel road. I checked fence lines, wondering if they’d gotten on the wrong side of one.
Lately, they’d developed a habit of completely ignoring me until dusk. Then, right on cue, all four would single-file it home like they’d been planning to come back the whole time and my yelling was simply not a factor.
But not tonight.
By 6:40, I was hoarse.
They would have roosted by now. Wherever they were, they were locked in for the night. There was nothing left to do but pick it up in the morning. Hope they’d find their way back.
I went inside with tears streaming down my face.
This was it.
The Part Where My Brain Did What Brains Do
My mind was already writing the story.
The one where you tell everyone they disappeared. The one where you find a pile of feathers that used to be your bird.
I have lived that story before.
Years ago, I lost every one of my chickens in a single day. A deranged wild animal, broad daylight. All I found were little spots across the yard — each one a small pile of feathers where a bird used to be.
You don’t forget what that looks like.
I had prepared myself to lose peafowl one by one. The odds are not gentle. There are 101 ways a peafowl can die, and I have read about every single one of them.
But to lose all four. In one night.
What kind of bird parent lets that happen.
A terrible one.
6:45 p.m.
I walked out onto the screened porch. The one that looks down the slope where they hunt for bugs in the late afternoon.
I stood there.
Listening.
Listening.
Listening.
At 6:45, I heard a sound to my left.
Not an alarm call. Not a whistle.
The sound of a bird walking through grass.
There was Morpheus.
I tore through the house. Nearly knocked James off his feet.
He caught my arm. “Is everything okay?”
“No — yes — now it is. They were all gone. They just showed up.”
I didn’t stop moving.
I got to the end of the driveway, looked across the back of the house, and there they were. All four. Led by Morpheus.
Morpheus and Neo ran to me and straight into the greenhouse. Han wanted to follow, but Leia had already decided she was sleeping outside tonight. He waited for her. She did not come. He finally gave up and went to her, and they flew to the roof and up to their tree.
Everyone accounted for.
Everyone home.
The Theory
Maybe they were so busy ignoring me that they lost track of time.
Maybe they wandered farther than usual and the fences confused them on the way back.
Or maybe Morpheus — my imprinted peahen, the one who has been yelling for me since she was three ounces of fluff and lungs — finally said:
Hey guys. I don’t know about you, but Mom’s been yelling her head off for 45 minutes and I’m just gonna go home.
I’d like to think it was that.
I’d also like to think my voice still means something to at least one of them.
Probably.
One Year
A year ago, I was planning a 37-point presentation to convince my husband that peacocks were a reasonable life choice.
Nine months ago, I was lying in a hospital with six broken ribs, worrying about peachicks I hadn’t picked up yet.
Tonight, I was standing in the dark with tears on my face, worrying about four peafowl who couldn’t be bothered to answer me.
They have grown. They have matured. They have learned to chase foxes, roost in trees, patrol the property, and completely disregard the woman who raised them — right up until the moment she’s about to fall apart.
Then they come home.
Next time they’re in a tree in the yard and I’m annoyed about something trivial, I’m going to remind myself:
At least they’re in a tree in the yard.
If you need me, I’ll be sitting on the porch with swollen eyes and a hoarse voice, googling “do peafowl understand the concept of curfew or do they just enjoy watching you suffer.”