From the edge of oak and slashed-out
silage in the fields, quail called.
A blunt crop of autumn light nicked
the leaves, darkening as it went,
cooling on the ground. My father moved
his iron chair out in the yard
and lit a cigarette, took
a long draw with puckered lips
and set to whistling back to the trees.
From within a cloud of smoke,
his cheeks pulsed for over an hour
with a female's measured call.
How the old man ever held still enough
I will never know.