The bird swooped and swam through the air to stain
blue sky with black feathers that the wind lifts
high in the breeze past crow and eagle and plane
to be swept to the ground where nothing shifts.
It is ignored by both men and box stacks
that rise above heads, but not birds who seat
themselves on cardboard until people hack
coughs at them and take the boxes to meet
ships and waters, that gurgle with a white
promise of new lands, with new birds and rangers,
who wish to collect new feathers, that might
be new species of birds, and be angered
that the feather which so wanted to entice
them was thrown to the pier to wait with the ice.