Small bird who bathed
in the blue basin, you
left a slender feather
you didn’t need to fly
as you dipped striped
head, fluttered wings
in storm of cold drops
to shed some parasite
your grooming mate
couldn’t find. You’re
warm enough, one tiny
plume less makes no
difference. Now you
don’t feel the bite of
something sharp as
time itself trying to
hinder your flight and
gathering, your sleep.
I keep the gray feather,
thin sacrifice that made
you happier if lighter
in the unseen scale of
things always tilting
one way or the other.
For more on Nels Hanson, please see our Authors page.
Amarillo Bay 