The hatchlings’ tiny, shiny feathers
gild and grace the handle of the pipes,
and all the peace in the world
that was never attained,
broken by the strife and suffering
of humanity’s merciless
love of power
over other forms of dust,
is healed in the smoke,
blessed by
colorful fledgling feathers
that will never
feel the sun and wind and rain,
and
master the sky.
BlackQuill 