(for Ed Cole)

I walk by the ceramic vase by the window
with a myriad of feathers emerging
like the tail of a hastily assembled bird—

as if God had grabbed a brown-and-white
variegated tail feather from a turkey,
and the curving tiger stripes ending

in the white tip of a red-tailed hawk,
along with the black-banded
feathers of pheasants

and mashed them together in
a funky flying creature that has
dropped a feather here and there

for you to retrieve on your walks
through farmers’ fields and by
your riverside. And, knowing

of my affection for the plumage
of birds I rarely see in my city,
you’ve been adding

to this bouquet you didn’t know
you started years ago, my friend,
which reminds me of you

every time I walk by, as I reach
out to touch one of your
feathered friends’ offerings

that they once wore as they flew
through the highest blue,
as we wingless ones wish

that we might do, too.