By Harry Waitzman

fallen from what bird?
A child slides off her bike when
she sports the heron and rushes to speak to it
before boys throw rocks and yell.

She strokes a white feather caught
on a bramble and is lifted over the lake
higher than hooking geese, past swans
which surf the billowing clouds.

I sharpen a quill and write the child’s initials”
across the sky with blue black ink. After gathering
pickerelweed, I count love’s feathers
on the wings of a goose.

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