A single feather on the ground,

Laying still, each times found.

A voice to speak, each follicle

Pregnant stillness, life-side chronicle. 

And hollow, as we go again

Each time, migrating.

Moving spaces, flying sparks,

The grey flecked with white. 

What did it think, as it fell to the ground?

Lost its soar, kite-like motion.

And follow, as we go again

Each time, migrating.

Wings clipped, shifting space,

Like a displacing confabulation.

I ask myself this question in the round,

Seeking south, but run aground.

——

“To first order, I believe it's true to say that everything I remember is false.” - Arthur C Clarke