Feathers are a kind of magick
one feather does not make a bird
but each feather is the ghost of a wing
that touched the face of the sky

One feather does not give flight
but the memory of flight clings to it
holding on, keeping the scent of it
like smoke in the cloth of a favorite sweater

The texture of clouds
holds the feather together
ephemeral moments of wing flap
the rush of wind, the defiance of gravity’s firm law

The soul of the bird in its feather
each one a ghost of a wing
the memory of rebellion
feathers are a special kind of magick