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Floating On High- a poem

The feather. It glides up on high, twisting this way and that. Who knows where it is from? Tiny hairs are like wings, guiding the unpredictable path. A young fox cub snatches it, smiling in glee. But wait, it is gone. A fisherman discovers the feather, lying helpless. The feather. He is kind though and releases it to continue its quest. Gazing down at the frosted earth, its delicate wings brush against the palm of my hand. A smile appears on my face, so unusual yet seen so much. The feather.

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