Our moulting days are in their twilight stage.
These lengthy dreaded suns of draggling plumes.
These days of moods that swiftly alternate between
the former preen and a downcast rage
or crest-fallen lag, are fading out. The initial bloom;
exotic, dazzling in its indigo, tangerine
splendor; this rare, conflicting coat had to be shed.
Our drooping feathers turn all shades. We spew
this unamicable aviary, gag upon the worm, and fling
our loosening quills. We make a riotous spread
upon the dust and mire that beds us. We do not shoo
so quickly; but the shades of the pinfeathers resulting
from this chaotic push, though still exotic,
blend in more easily with those on the wings
of the birds surrounding them; garnishing
the aviary, burnishing this zoo…
Reference:
Margaret Danner