I saw the feather in the windowsill: dappled in grey and white stripes.
Whose feather? Whose hand, whose eye who found it, discarded on a swirling flight over canyon and river?
Someone planted the orchids in the pond. Someone watered the orchard and saw feathers and black beetles here: scurrying into little holes in gravel to places I cannot see.
A winged creature darts past me. Waking me up. A bug or a bird? I don't know. And I wonder about this, too.
Whose feather? Whose hand, whose eye who found it, discarded on a swirling flight over canyon and river?
I smelled it on the trail through the orchard. The scent of memory. Hiking not far away from here when I was a girl. I knew the trail then.
Someone planted the orchids in the pond. Someone watered the orchard and saw feathers and black beetles here: scurrying into little holes in gravel to places I cannot see.
I sit with my questions.
Where is the trail head? Can I drink the water?
Where is the trail head? Can I drink the water?
A winged creature darts past me. Waking me up. A bug or a bird? I don't know. And I wonder about this, too.
Kind hands. That's who.
Kind hands made this utopia farm, and the feather and the seed pod left on the windowsill for me to find. For me to find and wonder into this place where I leave you now with a story on your windowsill.
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