Of the Withering Feather

Softly speaking swooshing skimming
Blown in hollow hectric hills
Cracked in creeping tip of falcon's beak
Leaving gentle thrustworth thrills

Aloft enraged brigading feather
Dart a wing drawn in a dream
"Shoots ahoy!" a bird man yelling
Turned the grip of his flight's stream

Out of might it flown a fluttering
Jolt a needle, by another
Drift aside it crashed and landed but
Not of the Withering Feather

-Francis