I Am The Bird That Changes Feathers

(Written on a Sunday Between Mowing the Front Yard and Mowing the Back)

I am the bird that changes feathers,
bringer of the seed and corn,
filler of the cement pond,
saved for that from mocking scorn.

I am the bird that changes feathers,
at least that's how I think they see
the one who feeds them in all weathers,
winter snows, spring rains, and heat.

I am the bird who changes feathers,
who had twelve jobs by thirty-three,
who had three loves by twenty-seven,
who had eight dreams by seventeen.

I am the bird who changes feathers,
who sings and flies on other’s wings,
but never once has homed in heathers
or left the bounds of gravity.

I am the bird who changes feathers
desiring of the wind on high
ready for the molting season
ready now for wings to fly.


© 2021 Deborah E. Moore, All Rights Reserved