Quail
A
S DELICATE as the spangled fronds of weeds
Through which they slip in arduous
pursuit
Of worms and bugs and brittle shattering seeds,
The quails are feeding, storing the dark loot
In feathered craws . . . a silver whistling note
Lifts on the air—a tiny thread of sound
Repeated softly from a swelling throat,
Then silence, save where seeds fall to the ground.
Such exquisite, fine markings! Breast and wing
Blend with the grasses shaken by the breeze,
Until the eye beholds no living thing.
The aristocrat of all game birds are these
Small crested quail here in the wind and sun,
Safe for a time from man and dog and gun.
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