A single feather sprouts
from the otherwise uninterrupted carpet
of manicured uniform crayon green.
 
As I get closer, an eruption of feathers,
long grey quills from wings,
tiny tufts from once-full breasts.

Was it on the way home?
Did it hear the hawk
in its assured glide?

It is the killing season again.
It always is.  

Second to the last line from Hanif Abdurraqib's "Welcome to Heartbreak."