Where are you my feathered friend
Who lost a feather – maybe
Victim of some errant cat
Who licking tips of desire
Waited on your nest for you
To return – so that he could devour
In his our chosen hour
You - in his chicken soup.
Or is there another
Tale to tell
Way up high
While some bird of prey
Even higher in the sky
Pounced on you
Like bait from the blue
And carried your corpse
To the mountain eyrie
And all that was left of you
Was one large plume
From
which I fashioned a quill
To record your doom.
by Hillie Feldman 1995 copyright
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