What is the cost of falling feathers,
loss of their gusty dance?
Once I knew where
their day’s refuge was—
between the moss-scabbed barks.
I could spot their feeble stroll within the fern,
their blurred footmark over the soft loam
and the walk trail over the leafy compost.
I also knew the touch of their twig-fingers.
the wind diction —
verbiage of their wings’ beating,
blood-breathing and claws’ susurration.
I wish I could I feed them once
wet rice with sliced banana from my cupped palms
while listening to their pelts’ whirring over the tree husk.
and watch their final flight toward the crescent moon.