hop, hop
two pigeons
exited the terminal
hopping up the stairs
step by step
we watch
from the escalators
as they make their way
to the downtown
without ruffling a feather

Who is this girl that twirls around at twilight
under the crescent moonlight and the fading sun?

With tears running down her face,
she holds an angelic smile upon her face.

What does she see?
What does she hear? and
What does she feel?

Black feathers begin to fall,
circling around the ruffles of her black dress,
landing by her bare-feet.

Who is this girl
and why does she turn at this hour?
What has she gained? and what has she lost?
Only time will tell,

yet here I am feeling found
while being lost in her day-spring eyes.

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”

“And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

-Emily Dickinson.

and at that moment, i knew,
if my love for you,
had wings, silver feathers to fly,
it'd come back to you,
wherever you are, under the sky

It seems this week has taken to its own will
chased me down the hill into the prairie as it came close
to lunchtime
–the starving lads crying–
the whetstone ready
its hands skinning my lips,
for once I am glad
there are no feathers
anywhere close to my mouth
–at least I can keep my wings