The Feather In The Hat
Ah, there it is.
by Sonny Rainshine
The feather I found
on a hike in the Maine woods
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.