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We Collect Gull Feathers

As the evening dies over Pepin, we collect gull feathers, black and white ones, and pretend they were dropped by the eagle whose track and wing marked the gray Mississippi sandbar.

Jesse remarked as we arrived, "If I point at hawks they fly away, but if I don't they stay in their trees."

The river moves heavily, south, and the sun drops beyond the bluffs. The air chills me. I want to keep my fingers in my pocket, because everything moves on here, except that sweet pain of love that knows he's growing up to leave me.

Timothy Young