Dawn shelter in the station waiting room,
the spoils of night as dregs of tea,
the restless hand as porter's broom,
the Nile of touch as postcard of the sea.

Outcome
Anne Rouse
Poetry, Volume 185, Number 3
December 2004

Sun crests the trees,
east south-east.
Camelback mountain
east north-east.

The quail appear, and are,
unexpectedly, crossing the road.
A covey with eight visible
where three turn
back as I approach.

A young woman drives up, slows
to activate the remote garage door.
She pulls into the garage
across the street, door closing.
All babes are safe
as I walk on.
Quail calls all clear.