A Murder of Quail

My sensible backyard fence has nothing
            against winter quail.
It stands six feet tall to keep out dogs
            and keep in tension.

But during the northern transit, callipeplae find the wall
            undecidedly perplexing—
three, four, six at a time, they flapper up and quaver
            upon the snowy rail.
Preened blacks and browns glisten as the birds ponder
            further hesitant flight,
jerking plumes at my white, encrusted yard—bobbleheads
            never more awkward.
After much lack of thought they take a confused leap
            from crowded perch,
making way for dozens who scuffle and wait their churn
            on the far side.

Defying the situation’s gravity, another southern convoy
            assumes the position:
the stubborn migrants appear to have nothing much
            against my fence.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
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