Feathers (Poetry)

The echo of a headache hangs
bruising the horizon —
a smudge of stress left over from the storm.

Inside my ear the air is singing still
but not so shrill its strident chorus
blending with the distance — like a turning tide at ebb.

The bird of thought wearied under pain
preens slowly
runs the edges of pale feathers through her beak
testing for strength
plucks a few and lets them float away
watches as they spiral
judging form and marvelling how separation lends
a dream perspective —
everything adrift amidst a calm
that stretches —
layers silence inbetween each sigh and shuffle
settling leaf by leaf.

Fragile — my skull a thin-walled cave
that bounces sound
whispers bump around like far-off thunder.

Against a squint of too-bright light
the shadow of a feather falls so delicate — so perfect
that I catch my breath.