Feather of a Turkey

By Maura

One year ago, all 365 days past,

on Thanksgiving at Grandma`s house

there was a feather.

The feather flowed on the chill of howling wind.  

The speckled bird’s down dropped

to the cold and frosty bed of grass

off the back of the fowl most popular on the day of thanks.

Down it floated, making the crisp and common sound of autumn,

it sat listening to the wind in the tangled branches of the trees.

The winds slowed, rustled, then picked up speed.  

It was time to leave, thought the feather.

The soft fluff let go of the ground and flew.

Soon it was intercepted by a hand,

I caught the soft feather and brought it home.