Feather

Wings unfurl, sway in ocean breath,
thick with wave mist.
Bird rises to flight's challenge,
wing curve and camber
perfected by instinct.
Woodwind quills sing in rushing air.

Bird's triumph echoes from granite cliffs,
ocean roar fades to a whisper.
Soar high upon updrafts of swirling air.
Air column loses focus,
bird hangs motionless, eyes drink the sky.
He plummets.

Wind stalks backswept wings,
steals a feather from rows overlapping.
He mourns feather's loss,
then flaps wounded wings,
soars again, the past forgotten.

Feather drifts in wind's fickle embrace,
descends reluctantly, alone in the sky.
Quill touches ground to sun's waning,
lies flat between rocks.
Tide's outpouring gurgles stone to stone,
soaks the feather, air's freedom lost.

Moon peeks above the waves,
ascends to paint yellow across the stars.  
Moonlight illumines the feather, 
wave-tarnished but aglow,
dancing in the shallows.

From above, eyes gleam
from within rocky cliff crevasse.
Expectant mother, sleepless, 
belly pregnant with eggs,
spies the iridescent quill.
Climbing from warmth of her nest half built,
her wings spread,
allow graceful descent to rocks below.

She plucks loose the whiteness,
scatters droplets from her shaking bill.
Wings struggle, lift her to clefted rock.
Eyes draw shut, bill probes nest
for the perfect place.  There. 
Woven into softness,
white feather lies beside others,
speckled eggs soon drying upon them.

Months later, a brood of three
hatchlings grown huge,
wings stiff with feathers,
gathers courage to conquer the sky.
Wings spread, birds lift skyward.
Below them, a white feather lies woven
amongst others, padded with down,
twigs and grasses,
life's glorious crown completed.

Scott Speck
1998