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…