The crow feather I found was not an idea.
The crow feather was a black slash on the green lawn.
It was a way of counting. One. One.
The crow feather seemed to be waiting for me.
It rested, abided, as though placed just so
for the one time I would walk to its threshold.
I believe the crow feather when it is in my hand.
I know that it is a feather in my hand,
black quill, inkless, for writing out the gospel.
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By Michael Chitwood