Black Feathers

Their barbs stir up a breeze
on a blind-air day.
The dust, gravel, gravy of sun
and sand, the feathers
writhe in their future,
the state between life and death.

Their origin has been obliterated
by a black feline
that balances its languor on a fence-line.
Their freedom means nothing.
The feathers just be,
a part of the shadow so rare this summer,
and I try hard to fathom what this means,
but nothing and nothing comes to my mind.




Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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