Quails, and: Pondering Pheasant

Quails

Pliney told that migrating quails rested in such numbers on the sails of ships at night that the vessels were in danger of sinking.

—from 100 Birds and How They Got Their Names

All night our ship creaksand groans under the weight

of countless scale-belliedquails. Bad luck to shoot

them—so fifty-two mendream of drowning while

white-feathered crests sagour rigging worse than any

wave. Still, death by birdis not how we plan to go.

We pass some rot-gut winein the dark while the deck

turns slick with shit. Touchingcrosses round their necks,

those who believe side withdrunks who think they see a pink

horizon, but dawn comesonly when it’s ready. Then

the sailor who sees farthestbows before the bevy of quails

rising reluctant but steadytoward their memories of stars.

Pondering Pheasant

This pheasant won’t be shotby fat men after breakfast.This pheasant’s etched in stone.But there I go again, dreamingof home, my father’s love

of pheasants—my father longgone. The stone is graniteand marks my father’s grave.All morning the crowshave behaved badly while

the pheasant’s held his wingsstretched wide, readyfor a flight that never begins.He’s been ready just twentyyears, yet his rock is showing

wear. So much for immortality.Who will save you now?mock the crows, pulling plastictulips from the ground. Notthe pheasant, bound by stone

into silence. Not his brother crow,that clown, who has staked a claimto the fresh earth mound wheremy mother lies, so newly arrivedshe’s still saying her hellos.