Patsy’s Quail

PATSY’S QUAIL

I take solace from their competence

As they scurry around her grave,

Nurses tending a bedside.

They chitter and consult,

Grey uniforms plumed and neat,

Feet tracking the fresh dirt.

They run busily about,

Taking readings,

Making notes.

Bringing the illusion of order and aid.

At night they retreat into the blackness,

Their nest in the brush pile quite close.

Possibly they come in the wee hours

To check on her.

I like to think so anyway.

Patsy’s quail.

They’ll

Be back for the morning shift,

Tending her once more,

Allowing me to tiptoe away,

Leaving her in their care.

(Author’s note: It’s now been eight weeks since Patsy died. The pain is less sharp, though it’s certainly not gone.)

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