Quail

Going where the car
went but under, not
through the guardrail,
a caravan of quail
hazards a mountain road:
mom, five chicks then
dad in near-comic
triple-time, parents
warily swiveling
apostrophed heads,
little ones in
linearity's thrall. Mid-
step and breath,
you watch them
family-find the green
fabric of a June re-
stitching itself
after being torn.

Dore Kiesselbach
New Letters
Volume 72, Number 2

Copyright © 2006. The Curators of the University
of Missouri.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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