Feather
Is my season beginning or ending?
As the leaves start to turn, I wonder: is my season beginning or ending? Have I missed one too many harvests? Or is the grande one still to come? Mid-walk, Feather stops to poop. I wonder, is there metaphor in that? The tired, used-up part of me, now gone, making way for something new? Or am I losing my mind, are my dreams a lump of shit? She is called Feather. Like those dreams, floating in the wind.
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