Cast-offs (Poetry)

There must be
some bird — a pigeon probably
up high in a nearby tree
preening in the morning sun
for every now and then
a feather falls
white and seeming perfect
it drifts on down
taking its time
carried slantwards on the thoughtful air
slowly ... slowly ... as though
loathe to touch
the always-waiting ground

Silent
without fuss
each pale dream of flight
is cast away
lost to its fellows
tucked in wing or breast
like a memory tossed
out of a past too crowded
full of fluff and dust
as if this routine plucking’s needed
the bird discards the old
and the expendable for instinct knows
new ones will grow