Call of the Quail

Norbert Krapf

From the corner of the woods
near where my father later planted
boysenberry bushes, close to where
my mother picked ripe strawberries,

came the call of the quail:
Bob, Bob, White! I am here;
Bob, Bob, White! I am here!
And once that call comes

it never goes away, and wherever
you live, in the city, in the suburbs,
in a small town, in the country,
whenever the sunlight slants

in a certain kind of way
and the breezes blow and touch
your skin, you close your eyes
and you hear once again

the soft yet firm cry you will
carry with you, wherever you go:
Bob, Bob, White! I am here;
Bob, Bob, White! I am there!

Copyright © 2007 Norbert Krapf. All rights reserved.