It is always feathers and turning shadows
into something about light;
moving like the morning glory
from the far side of destiny,,
with tendrils of gold
falling from an oval sky.
It warms the slanting chair
then melts across the pathway of cement
into the room towards the crumple of sheets,
still indented by the night.
I close my eyes and turn on the sky,
wait for the fragrance of line-dry
to open doors and let out the danger
of the dragging-down fog,
as the dog, warm and filled with barking,
furs swiftly past my leg
into the mockingbird's song.
Inside this room of bone and skin
I awaken to the possibility of wing.
It is always feathers and flight
and the changing way of shadows
and something about light.