At the edge of the cornfield
back home on the farm
my parents are soon to sell,
I find a perfect foot-long turkey 
feather striped black and white.

The wide, hollow calamus
reminds me of the time
Dad made us a quill pen
when we were young. Dark blue
ink, soft, white plume.

How fancy we felt, scratching words 
across unlined paper.
We wanted to burn the edges
to make the letters look old.
They would be, now. 

I take the turkey feather 
and give it to my sons, who exclaim
over its size, make it 
a most cherished prize
(at least for a day or two).

Tiny, precious things.
I wonder if they’ll remember, too.