Feather
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.
![Photo of Lauren Nagy](https://www.freeholdboropublications.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/IMG_4212-356x475.jpg)