When we still had forests

I was a feather collector.
The hundreds I’d gathered
affixed to yellowing pages:

-goose quills left along riverbanks,
-gull plumes from fast food parking lots,
-down preened by mourning doves.

Now impossible to find. I’m tired
of scanning skies in vain. After
I refresh birdbath water, discard
moldy seeds, refill the feeders, in case,
I’ll hike the once treed escarpment,
scrapbooks snuggled in backpack.

Swallow, sparrow, warbler, killdeer—
feather by feather. I’ll release each one
from the page. Let the wind
lift them into wings again.

 

Kimberly Peterson, poetrybreakfast.com August 8, 2024