The Feather In The Hat

Ah, there it is.
The feather I found
on a hike in the Maine woods
that day.

The apartment is nearly empty,
I’m returning to Maine for good.
Ten years lie there crated up and tagged.

I thought I’d lost the feather—
from an eagle, the park ranger had said—
but there it lay.

Leaving New York City,
kindles no regrets. The tall buildings
don’t need me to lean upon.

But should I take the feather?
Will it have the same meaning
when I’ve returned to the woods
where the bird who wore it lives?

On the floor in the closet,
I spotted a hat that had been my father’s.
I tucked the feather into the band,
hoisted a box,
and headed for the realm of eagles.

by Sonny Rainshine

Comments (1)

Sonny, I loved your poem, full of new starts and adventures in the natural world, just my cup of tea. 10 from Miss Standing with fists and a feather in her cap or two! Tai