The quail in the old Wild Area (as we called it

before it was bulldozed for houses) used to use

the aspen grove for their rookery. I often saw the chicks

following their folk as I skirted the trail along

the south side of grove, which in my mind explains

why those little scurrying feathered kids persuaded

my body to become a newborn quail. Right out of my shell

I bounced my floppy topknot around like the elephant calves

I saw on NatGeo swing their face noodles for fun, though

my topknot is on a smaller scale. My new life

is a smaller scale, so the patch of grass

looks like a plush motel that could house my whole family,

head plumes and all. The happiness of moist dirt underneath

soothes my fears. It took no time at all before I stopped

missing my thumbs. I love my three toes. Sprouting feathers

clinched the deal. I never want to turn back. I love

my quail life and will scuttle through this grove and follow

my clan wherever they go. I love how safe we all are

here iour private aspen grove.