GARNISHING THE AVIARY by Margaret Danner.

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