by Rick Fruend
Oh quail little quail, another year you've deceived us.
Yet, hunting you down is worth all of the fuss.
The woodcock we got, and the geese they were plenty.
But finding you is worth more than a penny.
Where did you hide, I'd really like to know?
If deep in the thicket, next year I'll surely go.
Along with manna, God gave us your meat.
For eating you is oh such a treat.
All Summer we hear you singing aloud,
Yet when Fall comes, you’re nowhere to be found.
Of searching you out I'll never loose the itch.
Next year I'll get you, you son of a gun.
I thought this was a fitting poem for the end of quail season.