No longer free to challenge the heights
but earthbound in the autumn wind,
a flash of iridescent blue on black,
a crow’s wing feather. Intricately made,
spine, ribs, curved to greet the skies,
as complex as life itself in its fashioning,
its purpose, yet black as death in death.
This feather once darkened the sky
but is now blown about, at times lifting
briefly as if to soar, but then failing.
Its fluttering is simply the breeze.
If this quill could find ink, would it write
of loss, or a strong wing and joy of the air?
Would it speak of soaring taken away
or a spirit kept alive by stir of the wind?