THE QUAIL

THE QUAIL Written by James D. Merrick, July 8, 2008

I sat there in my customary place on the garden bench,

basking in the late afternoon light as it filtered over me

through the quaking leaves of the yellow poplar tree, and

luxuriated in the fragrance of the evening cool.

-

She came up the driveway that first time,

mandating instructions to her brood of three that scrambled

helter-skelter after her on legs blurred from view

by their hummingbird-like speed'

-

Passing by, she tossed me a worried glance and

quickly led her hatchlings under cover in the musty shade

under the row of shrubs that lined the drive,

then out of sight, rustling the dried leaves as they went.

-

I listened to her incessant monologue, captivated by her

sounds that made their way out of the garden and

across the parched hillside beyond, then melted

into the dullness of dusk before fading away.

-

The next evening, I again sat watching the poplar leaves cavort

in the twilight breeze and listened to their running-water sounds.

I heard her coming up the drive again, shouting instructions to her chicks

as they kept pace in the protection of her shadow.

-

Midway to the top, she paused and waited as if to count her brood,

a dash of apprehension in her eyes.

Two gray blurs whisked by her and scurried up the drive,

disappearing into the lengthening shadows up above.

-

I wondered if she would pass by again that third evening and

took my place on the garden bench beneath the flaxen tree.

I waited in anticipation, longing to be awed by her determination,

her dedication, her courage, her journey to somewhere important.

-

I listened for her distinctive call, eager to watch her and

wanting to know what remained of her family.

The sunlight faded, the poplar leaves silenced, and

the shadows of the end of day dissolved away.

-

She did not come.