Washing the Feathers
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Standing at the kitchen sink,
gently washing and smoothing
(from calamus to tip) the bluejay feather
I found on the path, and the woodpecker feather
I found near the Barn, I kept thinking:
these were once attached to bodies with hollow bones—
ones that flew, ones that slept in the trees—
and I wondered at how many feathers
the bluejay and woodpecker still had,
and why they dropped these particular ones,
and how high they were flying when they did,
I wondered if they knew they had loosened them
into the sky, I wondered if they felt them go,
I wondered too if I will feel the feathers
dropping from my soul as I fly through the world.