New World Quail Poem by Judith Skillman

Always rushing, dressed for business—
the bobbing hats,
the one by one and across the street
as if it were
any kind of day, and not the end
of August.
Ever herding this year's young
wherever it is
they need to learn to go, and, having
safely entered
the apple orchard, plumage disappears,
feathered to match
exactly that background for which
they become the foil, never quite
leaving earth, nor settling on it
wholeheartedly.