For every feather their is sorrow....

Drifting, twirling through the damped chilled autumn air.....

“Whooping” and “whisping” beside the bony trees of bare...

Thrusting, thriving to the souls of the night....

As if to marvel in wonder upon ones first flight....

Shifting, silently downwards now to the world of cold....

Flickering, shimmering below stars of fools gold....

Swaying gently to and fro....

Coming to a bed of leaves below...

Resting upon the layers of blankets I begin to hear...

“Crunch” crunch “crunch” drawing near...

As a young wooly booger with no wool came ta stand before me....

With his hand , he reach out with such glee...

Terrified, I tried to flee yet it just wasn’t meant to be..

Enclosed by his warming paws, he drew me close to see....

Black as onyx I stood strong with my vane flared out.....

Studying me, his face bouncing around with troubling doubt..

Till at last his face came to settle.....

“A crows feather in fine fettle”....

He began to plunder in his sack around his waist...

With haste he fumbled for something misplaced....

Until at last a thick book emerged that sent a chill up my spine....

As he flipped through the pages I saw many feathers of all bloodlines...

As he took me and placed me behind a invisible wall....

For every feather here their is sorrow from our fall....