This elegant writing instrument was hiding under
A table in my room. It must have wandered there
Of its own accord, along with all the other things
That find their way to the understory of my life,
The domain of dust mice and other entities that
Feed on shadows and silence. The feather once belonged
To a Treepie, and now it belongs to me.
The Treepie is a handsome bird: brown, white and black
With a musical clunk! at the end of its call.
I would like to make a quill-pen out of the feather
And use it to draw a Treepie or to write a poem
About feathers and dust.
But: I won’t!