Quail

I was idly working a puzzle in the newspaper when my ears, if they moved at all, would have perked up.

“Listen,” I said to myself, “you know that call.”

The bird said, “Bob, Bob White!”

I couldn’t see the quail, but it was very near our back porch. We used to hear them all the time in Stony Brook before the meadow became a development. It’s wonderful to have one here – a welcome party of one, if a bit late.

A bit later I took something over to Amy and Ron, arriving just as his home hospice aide arrived. Amy was climbing the hill to the driveway, making fun of herself for looking like a yard worker. Patricia, the aide, was a bit concerned that Amy was so hot. That’s when Amy told a story on herself.

She said, “I took Ron to the emergency room one time, – don’t remember what for– and I looked about like this. They thought I was the patient!”

Patricia disappeared into the house, and a minute later, she came back to hand Amy a bottle of water. Amy made good use of it – drinking some and poring some on her arms. Yes, gardeners are born, not made. I’d resent anyone making me work that hard. Amy’s yard is a showcase, though.

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