nestled
in my hand
a bird
waits;
its feathers
are red and blue
tinged with white
and I pull them
from its wings
one by one;
they slide out
painlessly
and the bird
is patient,
motionless.
last night
this was the
perfect metaphor
and I can’t
remember
why.
John S. Hatcher, A Sense of History, p. 147