Quail Pairs of Two

Dawn at Mount Mee smelled like straw and soft feathers. Spike sat. Suzy was already peering under the quail run.

Quails leave and come back, said Spike. So we count in pairs. Two, then two, then two. Not a guess.

Suzy tapped the first pair with a careful paw tip — soft eye, soft count. One pair. Two birds.

Pavlova the white chicken watched from the roof like a queen who did not do maths but approved of order.

Spike felt his Thinking Cap habit — Puppy School, not magic. Stop. Look. Think. How many pairs?

Three pairs under the shade board. Six birds, said Spike. Suzy found one more pair by the water dish. Four pairs. Eight.

Eight is four twos, Suzy said aloud so you could count with them. Two, four, six, eight.

They checked again. Same eight. No invented quails. Little Thunder stood at the rails and did not invent a ninth.

Farm maths can be small and honest. Pair by pair. Latch after.

Count with us next dawn, they told you. Twos before breakfast stories.

Two and two. Honest eight.