A Handful of Feathers
9/9/04 to 9/15/04

On a beach, it's early morning,
The sky is caked with cloud,
Squalls of seagulls squawk a warning.
On the sands their feathers crowd.
Grey waves waver, crash and swirl,
Leaving behind darker sand,
Up to the feet of a grey girl
(a grey-eyed and grey-haired girl)
Where she bides upon the strand.

She has a unique appearance,
Standing, staring cross the bay;
It's not poetic incoherence,
When I claim that she is grey.
Her hair of fog seems to be made,
Pale achromatic gloom,
And her eyes gleam the exact same shade
(sad it is, that gleam, that shade)
Of cumulonimbic doom.

Digital shapes hang from her ears,
Give a low electric hum,
For she's not the human she appears,
But robot simulacrum.
Above her, seagulls wheel and cry,
Send more feathers drifting down;
But already she had a sup ply
(held in her hands, a small supply)
Gathered from all around.

She turns her gaze upon the birds,
White feathers in her hands,
And expressions never said such words,
Contemplating life's demands.
And as the seagulls freely swoop
And grey dawn turns to bright day,
She drops the feathers, lets them loop
(down to the water, spin and loop)
(feathers float and sink and loop),
Then turns, and walks away.

Notes: About Ping's In Search of Lost Wings portrait, in case that's not apparent.
In low sunlight's shafting rays,
lucky eyes in place may be
to have within beglared gaze
the long thin glass by wind blown free
lightly settle through rainbow
(refractive before gray)
and to dream of it let go
and loose in flight to flow
as if her heart were free to play.

- _Quinn

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