A Conflagration of Quail

Quail convene just below the upper pond,
where the stream bed cradles a thin blanket of water
before the drop. Three perch atop
nearby boulders, eyes flickering faster
than sun on water, watchtowers of quail.

The rest bathe in the belly of the stream,
where ice has not yet reached. Wingtips dip and flit,
spray and fluff, droplets launched into flight, a spring shower
in December, a torrent of quail
to challenge the frost.

There must be a song, though sound lies
silent under the snow, a call or an invitation winging
through branches too bare to snag.
For now another flock thunders in, curls
around the edges of rock and water, a banister
of quail to keep the horizon from collapsing.

A flurry of sky-filled feathers and the stream is left
almost alone. Fluff and spray—droplets fly
up and out, arcing into one thousand wishes, sparkling
in winter sun, one hundred seeds longing
for spring, ten eggs not yet laid,
one quail bathing in a stream.


                            Published 2004 Mid-American Review

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