The Heron's Nest

Editors' Choices

The Heron's Nest Award

The quail, California's state bird, was chosen for its hardiness, social nature, and distinctive appearance—especially the delicate topknot that curves forward from its head. Its call has been heard and interpreted in different ways: "chi-ca-go" in English, "go-ki-cho" in Japanese, echoing a phrase that suggests a "good omen." In the Japanese saijiki, the quail is an autumn kigo. It often appears in traditional paintings, accompanied by seasonal plants such as silver grass, symbolizing peace and a bountiful harvest. Though Japanese quails and their California cousins belong to the same pheasant family, their forms and colors reveal subtle differences shaped by place.

I live in downtown San Francisco, far from quail habitats. Instead, I am surrounded by pigeons and seagulls. Pigeons might boast, "We provide summer music for tourists waiting in long lines at the cable car turnaround." Seagulls, gazing over the ocean, might counter, "Quails bathe in dry sand; we float upon the bay. Which of us understands the spirit of water more deeply?" And the quails—unseen by me in the wild—might whisper, "Our ancestors lived here long before European settlement. As natives, we have witnessed the transformations of this land, alongside California poppies and redwoods."

What draws me most to this haiku is its second line, where "liquid" is the keyword. "Syllables" transforms birdsong into language, inviting us to listen more closely. Do we hear joy, or a lament for the times we inhabit? The word "liquid" suggests softness, ease, even relief. Against the harshness of a dry summer, these syllables feel like a brief release, a moment of flow. Liquids do not fracture; they continue, merging and reshaping themselves. "Liquid syllables" may evoke a call that stretches, echoes, and dissolves into air—contrasting with the stillness and brittleness of drought.

The antonym of "liquid" is "solid." All living things contain both qualities. A tree stands rooted and firm, yet yields to the wind. A bird builds a nest to shelter its young, yet carries within it the freedom of flight. Mountains and hills, too, embody both solidity and fluidity, their appearances shifting with the seasons. They endure heat, cold, and, increasingly, the threat of wildfire.

Do we, like quails, have our own "coveys"? I believe haiku poets do. Ours may not resemble the rigid hierarchy of a wolf pack, but it is a community nonetheless. Some take on nurturing roles, guiding others in how to "hunt" for a subject. Others lead us toward places rich with discovery. Even in times of dryness—literal or emotional—we continue to sing, holding onto joy and hope as acts of quiet resilience.

I do not consider myself a nature person. I am often drawn to haiku that opens an inner door. This time, the magic wand is "liquid." My reading—perhaps more imagination than interpretation—may diverge from the poet's intention. Still, I find pleasure in wandering through this inner landscape, where language becomes a field of possibility.

Fay Aoyagi
June 2026