Raymond A. Foss Poems

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The edge of the water’s surface
Cupped a bit of
Mallard down this morning.
Shed and forgotten by its owner
Adrift to float with the ripples.

Caressed by the surface
But never breaching it.
Part of the water
But not in the water

Beads of dew clung to
The spine of the feather
Marking each fiber.

The bent quill left some
Of the fluff dry,
Murmuring in the
Gentle morning breeze.
A sail to guide the
Feather on its journey.

Written Sunday July 2, 2000 at 10:30am.

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