The neighbors have gone
and the quail that haunts

their arbor is losing
his voice, sounding

more like a tired
dog toy than

the lothario that
he is.  Yet,

as I watch he’s
attracted a girl:

He obviously doesn’t
need my pity.

Everything is lifting
now, and part

of it is wine. But,
not all – now

that she’s caught
his eye she leaves

and he follows,
both sharing

the same low
flight. Speaking of,

the floatplanes
have changed

their landing pattern,
buzzing this hill

all day long. The winds
must be favorable,

having shifted;
somehow we all

have registered
the change.