The quail can always find a home
‘neath bush and tree and garden gnome.
Their pencil legs a meager stand
are still enough to ‘scape my hand.
They jut and dart and squirt around
like wing-ed hamsters, rarely found,
and when the time has come to dine
they squiggle cross my lawn to find
a twig, a bud, a worm or two
to feed their quail-ettes like they do.
They never come just two or three
but dozens, quite the sight to see.
These paragons of Spring time flare
though awkward, still they, willing, dare
to squat inside my arbor bush
until their next big dinner rush.