Thursday, January 5, 2017

Walk Don't Run

The quail, quivering with indignation at the interruption, scatter hither and yon, panicked but persevering in their refusal to fly, least they lose their dignity, they run stiff-legged, little best men at the wedding, dressed in their tuxes, running into bushes.

1 comment:

  1. Because the draught persuaded me to let my burn-pile become quail habitat, I've become quite the quail observer. As a self-proclaimed and thoroughly unknowledgeable expert on their behaviors and moods, I'd like to congratulate you for hitting the quail (I mean nail, of course-such a cornball) on the head. I especially like the image of little best men scurrying around in their tuxes. I want to know what they are running from! Wait, I know, it's my dog, Wilson.

    Thoroughly enjoyable prose poem, or whatever the correct label is.


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