Swan song

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.

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