Quail Crossing || Danielle Sherman

While walking to the park
at dusk I saw a quail crushed
               into the road, nothing
              more than tarred bones and the asphalt’s
               open red mouth.
White down dusted the pavement:
soft summer snow.
Then ahead,
one of two quails scuttled into the black
               river, froze
               on the dotted line,
               turned to look behind—
                             headlights rounding the corner—
                             an engine’s rising roar—
until its companion caught up
               and the two crossed
               side by side.

So I will stand in the road for you,
stare down the carcass of my kin
               knowing the flaws
               that felled it there
and wait anyways.
What roads have truly been crossed
if we did not cross them together?
               Look past the screaming headlights, my dear;
               look past the bloody feathers.