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Meg Kearney
Pliny told that migrating quails rested in such numbers on the
-- from 100 Birds and How They Got Their Names
All night our ship creaks
quails. Bad luck to shoot
them -- so fifty-two men
dream of drowning while
our rigging worse than any
wave. Still, death by bird
is not how we plan to go.
We pass some rot-gut wine
in the dark while the deck
crosses round their necks,
those who believe side with
drunks who think they see a pink
horizon, but dawn comes
only when it's ready. Then
the sailor who sees farthest
rising reluctant but steady
toward their memories of stars.
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