Plumage

(for Harry Rogers)

Feather pinwheels to my feet.

I look up and do not see a bird,

not even a gospel sparrow,

maybe, it appeared from thin air.

Do you know how to read omens?

I imagine mystical things all around us

piled up like snow drifts at our feet.

Not every feather is a quill,

it keeps its secrets to itself

I ask the wind

if birds die perched in trees

like Lakota warrior dead.

A breeze moves through my hair,

dries sweat on my forehead

and hums a wordless tune.

8/28/2024