On spring evenings, neighbors on my Oregon suburban street congregate to watch a flock of feral turkeys fly up to the hundred-foot firs above our houses to roost. Over the past year, some of us have lost our jobs. Some of us have fallen ill, and some are desperately lonely and anxious and scared. For ten minutes at dusk, we step out of our houses and gather at a distance as the turkeys strut, one by one, to the top of our hill. They take a running start, then soar up into the air with a dramatic flapping of wings. Spilling twigs and cones, they alight on branches with much ruffling and bluster, and I and the neighbors applaud.