My father swerves the team
to miss the quail’s nest
hidden in the furrow
she rises up beating her wings
her cries fill all the world
of sky and cloud echoing her call…

and so he passes
the caring farmer with his crooked furrow
saluting life the warm round eggs
hidden in the spring grass
the quail rising and falling
pulled by invisible heartstrings.
~Dorothy Hewitt  “Quail’s Nest”

I remember my father driving a wooden post in the ground
where a killdeer nest held 6 speckled eggs;
the mother would run off crying plaintively,
flapping her “broken” wing
to lure him away from her precious brood.

He drove the plow around the nest,
marking their spot for the season,
respecting their presence,
preserving their future,
without anyone saying
he should or he must –
only his heart had told him
it was the right thing to do.