Morning Quail

Feathers pose a question
bobbing blackly on his head,
and all day, he calls who? Who?
At dawn from the Ponderosa
he lobs his query at me,
roused from sleep, dreams
a shadow of wondering
who I am today. In the dim
cocoon, my body curls
into the fetal answer: head,
heart, tail. A fern unfurling.
I am this and that. Between
waking and sleep a tenderness
opens for his seeking.

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