It let go with such obedience,
floating with ease,
trusting the breath of the earth.
Alive and harmonious,
it found comfort in the melodic cooing
as a voiceless old friend of the sky.
A whirl carried it far, but a feather is no stranger to travel,
it has seen places unimaginable,
or untelling perhaps.
It is most familiar with the realm of flight
as it once had the confidence and power to rise.
With every fiber it glides silently through the air
in remembrance of the thick plumage
from which it once came.
A lost piece of an unusual and elegant collaboration.
Few remnants remain though its vanity has not faltered.
It is simply as vein and pretentious as it ought to be.
It served one of many purposes to be so.
Variations of cocoa-brown, russet, and black are its name now, with no others.
A gradient as diverse and fluent as a birds high whistle.
Despite such continuity, it remains shielded
by immense mystery and grace like that of an angel.
As it lowers dignified toward the dirts below,
a breeze passes through each barb, with its structure unmoving.
It finally falls lightly tapping the ground only to rise again
at the command of the wind’s soft whisper.