Soft paddling up the rise
A lone goose left her sisters
Cavorting in the dark waters.
Studying me, she stopped only
Feet away, decided I was not
A threat, and turned her back.
She bore the mark of a narrow
Escape, with tangled feathers jutting
Out beneath her left wing, stripped
Of beauty, and apparently, of flight.
For an hour she preened herself
Around, between every feather;
The mangled ones receiving equal care
As the layered, symmetric ones.
Oblivious to what she should be,
Or could be, or was, she bathed
In the same warming light
Bathing my own tangled wounds.
28 October 2009
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