Oh, you floundering fool,
full of "shit happens"
and full of shit in general--
your early-bird steps
never wake me
so adjacent nothing may
always take me
by surprise,
just like the scurvy flight of fancy
we turned out to be,
alternately licking and scratching our wounds,
dusty feathers gray with color
scattered like wind-borne plumes
in fleeting symphony
spent quickly to ash.
But we are all feathers,
you and me and craven friends,
all tossed into the ether
to in beauty briefly swirl
and in slumber sweetly curl
around the new-born chick
named destiny, poised at nest's edge,
ready to plummet.