DUST
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Quail prefer seeds to bugs, so much so
we call them granivores. They love hanging out
in a field of ragweed, munching dried seeds

fallen from tipsy stalks. They dart
in and among wild sweet peas, pecking
autumn’s yield. They frequent the canal,

splashing in dust, kicking up dirt
in a grand fluffery, a mini dust-storm
of spunky feathers. I think the smell of dust

must be the draw, so deliciously of the earth,
what persists in death, although an ant
or two may surface in the raised dust, if not

a tasty everlasting seed, a pearl to crack
and eat. I remember my father in his easy chair,
cracking nuts, fixing a handful, tossing them

down the hatch after a holiday meal,
each crunch adding to the gathered joy,
the simmering clove. He had their zest

for all that’s nutty. Quail shower in family
groups, the tossed dust of one chick
goading another, surplus spray spinning

out in the breeze. While they travel in lines,
they bathe in bunches, creatures of vine
and fruit, twig and globe. Farmers

of the Midwest supply their need in soy
and corn. No field is fallow to these nimble
dancers of the wind and sand. Dust on,

my fellow canal folk! While this life putters
along, you make prime use of what’s next.
My father would crack a nut to that.