Dead Bird’s Feathers

Dead feathers falling from wings grown tired,

Spiraling down in zigzag motion 

Uncertain like the night, repetitive like moonlight,

Round and round, ever turning, and returning to the Unknown,

like the dawn and the end of days. 

Left on the ground, lifeless as squashed fruits,

And dead toads, abandoned to waxbills’ beaks,

Then claimed by other sister birds of prey

Hanging on high branches, with sharp tongues

And wings sweeping low to gather them 

With deep piercing eyes and snatching toes,

From earth’s embrace to the gates of heaven.