Thoughts Among Quail

Which Are Thoughts on Life

Watching the Desert Quail

Oh how you've grown since I first saw
your tiny selves bob-bubbling through
the ragged summer brush, when you
were not as heavy as the straw
you tumbled in and over. I
could scarce be certain whether each
was head- or feet-first; but you reached
the fence in safety just as spry
as you began your venture bold.
And now look at you!  All your brown
and white, your fuzzy down
has given way to gray, each fold
of feather sleek and elegant;
your tiny tufted wings have stretched
and now can fly; white streaks are etched
and splashed upon your gray, each slant
placed so exactly as if it
could never have been any way
but this. And when you run and play,
your strides are long and swift; you flit
into the cover and back out
in graceful dances with a lift
of wings, and when you sift
the wild-weeds and each growing sprout,
your mien is gentle and your eyes
still bright with wonder.  And I love
to watch you when the white-winged dove
has flown away but you, more wise,
remain, just slipping in among
the tree roots or the cholla stalks;
you watch me from your favorite walks,
concealed as when your first, fresh, young,
small feet went pattering to hide;
but now amid the shade I spy
your larger selves, black masks defy
the searching eye, but I espied
your curled black crest, your auburn patch
with white bars blazoned, and I hear
your voices murmuring quite near,
just there among the summer thatch
as though you know, now you are grown,
how little you have need to fear
my presence.  That’s the best, you dear,
soft graylings of the desert!  Stone
and sand, and prickly pear and green
soft shadows of small desert trees,
a thousand small things: sprouts and bees,
and skippers with a violet sheen,
and crimson fruit of cactus—split
and spilled for all to eat, no less—
and you and me, together bless
each other.  Is it left unwrit—
this law of kindness?  Yet our hearts
observe and know, and quiet eyes
look out from shadowed paths; I rise
to greet you quietly; here darts
a lizard and there flies a bat.
And each of us may go our ways
yet owe each other, through the days
and years, the peace of this small plat.
It won’t be long, my gray-winged friends,
until you bring new broods, your own,
to tumble through the shadows’ roan
soft paths.  Life never truly ends.

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