They're scampering under the birdfeeder
they can't fly up to, pecking at, picking up seeds
   the sloppy house sparrows and chickadees --
   intent on getting it all -- scatter
half of in their frenzied digging. Each quail
sports a question-mark, an ebony curl
   that sticks up from its forehead and bobs,
waggles and wiggles as it does, off at a sound
   or shadowy sign of danger.  Rotund,
   as if puffed-out and stuffed, they're gobs
of freckles with slate-gray backs, as single
as slippery drops of mercury that re-pool
   again. The one that slammed into
the guest room window -- with such force,
   it broke the outer thermopane-glass
   and its neck -- left a double halo
of feathers and slivers. May whatever directed it
grant serious us as quick and painless an exit.

Illustration by Belle Mellor