Looking out of the window first thing
to be greeted by a crime scene:
pale feathers of all shapes and sizes
scattered over the lawn.
No body, just feathers,
plucked from a wood pigeon.
I don’t want to look out on them,
so try raking them up,
gathering up a handful -
and they become pigeon again:
soft and warm and downy in my hands;
light as a bird;
with the stiffness of wing feathers
and that avian smell.
I keep one to put in my pot of found feathers
to admire and to remember…
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