En pointe a feather spins.
Past gossamer treetops it flickers, through
a web of powerlines, down–straight down–a few feet
in front of our car. It teeters a moment and,
its point slipping out from under itself,
sways to the ground between our car and the one in front,
like it is now actually dead, and not simply birdless.
We’ve been stuck at these lights now for five minutes,
and the block ahead is jammed. The baby
is cranky. I’m impatient. Then there’s this feather,
this determined, delicate feather
dancing with enough weight as it takes to stop time.