waxwings, a heron in the stream, exotic loud swans. Stomping through the grass I
discover my quail, now he's become six—the father and mother, four crownless
children. Why had he been calling at my window? Was he calling for her, his mate,
his children? Isolated from family, solitary, a state foreign to quail? Quail stand for
togetherness in dreams, because, as you see, they hoot to each other, they shake
together as one covey, they wander up through the thicket, calling out in the
blackberries.
He stands guard,
proudly. They are round
like little fall fruits.
Where will these quail lead me? Already the dusk is following, the swallows are
becoming bats in the August darkness. Beware of sitting alone in your little house,
he tells me from the thorny branches, beware of listening too long to the calls of
tear-shaped birds, using them for guidance.
[Jeannine Hall Gailey {1973- } 'In the Month of Quail', from Fire on Her Tongue: An Anthology of Contemporary Women’s Poetry]
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