Feather
Image by Lauren Nagy
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.
About the Contributor
Lauren Nagy, Editor
Lauren is a senior at Freehold High School, eager to be entering her third year as a writer for The Colonial's literary magazine and her second year as an editor. An avid reader, she is also a multi-instrumentalist and enjoys knitting when she can find the time. Despite her place in the Medical Sciences program, she foresees a career in neither medicine nor science - and would rather study English, creative writing, and music in college. If she wrote a novel that one day became a widely beloved classic, that would be pretty nice too.
