Drifter

A free feather falls,
abandoned but preserved,

gripped by a knightly wind. 

Its soft color and grace 

dwindle in the turbulence, 

doomed to meet mud and death.

This discarded soldier of the physical, 

the civil war of the natural, 

abandoned in the cool shade 

of the Oak, its former home. 

Set free now to wander
in a lazy, southerly wind. 

What freedoms exist in wayfaring other than direction? 

Better yet to be ones own master, 

with the means to matriculate, 

or build an army to bury feathers

from other trees in other lands. 

Cover them in dirt, point facing North 

so they know in which direction to hunt
the hereafter or whatever gives meaning to death.

Still, this slowly falling feather, 

trampled into mud and grime 

under horse hoof and wagon wheel 

will be forgotten, 

until uncovered by a child's curiosity. 

A simple kind of resurrection.

Who is this drifter of the dirt, 

facing north, toward the oak grove?

Do the questions give meaning to death?

Author's Note

Pic by Yasmin de Light

Reviews

[Valentine]

Interesting write. ValentineHaunted feather...Molting by the seasons is common for birds.Feathers lost in a c**k fight probably hurt.