Rain on the autumn leaves . . . Inside, my husband hands me a feather from a lilac-breasted roller, plucked from the ground in Mozambique. Given the bird, it might be almost any color, but this one is black, cobalt blue, and sky.
For new poems, see the prior post. For 2012 books (novel and two poetry volumes), see the A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage and The Foliate Head pages. A Thaliad page will be up soon.
2 comments:
I can see it now, the feather I mean.
I had the most brilliant, wondrous day today--the feather was just the start! Shall have to write about it tomorrow or the next...
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