To The Feathers

May 27, 2010
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I cannot help but notice a
puff of feathers perched atop the oak’s branches.
Stories of twigs below, the rhythmic beat
of the horse’s trot; canter; gallop.
The dust that pops from underneath
the horse’s hooves and hovers above the leaf litter.
The oak’s fingers bob up and down
and a crowd of feathers charge to the air.
Blades of grass stab through the earth’s flesh
and choke the veteran sward;
tinted yellow turf shrivels, waving its white flag.

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