Tuesday, August 19, 2008


This molted feather floats
from the limbs to the base,
and, as quickly, dissipates

Perhaps to be collected,
pressed in a dust jacket or
left to collect itself.

What little sheen has worn
away, before the cynical eyes
have seen to feel the color

That could have painted the skies.
Instead, the spectrum falls flat,
floats in any direction

Toward light. Turning, turned away.
The feather is not the bird.
The feather is not the bird.

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