A feather plucked before its time

Is met with no scream or outburst

But with a gentle sobbing weep

From the lone bird that loses it.

Did it hurt? Who knows.

For even a white feather crumbles

Before the failing sun.

A mass, bellowing in silence,

Locked back and forth before gates who lunge

And beasts who growl.

Some lunge back.

While, as the feather flies high,

Together we cry

Return if possible.