Your feather is planted
between the strings and bridge of my guitar,
gray as a storm cloud or early night,
and cut with lightning white.
The tiny scroll around your leg,
wrapped and tied with string to hold it tight,
the cardinal direction firm within your mind,
I wonder if you will make it on time.
O! Morning dove!
and your flight thereof!
I never came with a fowler’s snare
or spread a net for all the birds to see,
but if my yoke is not as easy as some,
it is not because I have not tried.
O! Broken wing!
and songs that you won’t sing!
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