(Before the gust, there was only the falling Borrowed plumage falls in the wind at last, A shape stands bare beneath a sky unmasked, What is bred cannot be counted or bought, The single stroke was never truly caught. Stoic calm receives what cannot be planned, A raw mark forms beneath an untrained palm, Not the pattern, but the throb beneath the pattern, That is what the borrowed feathers can't fasten. No feather speaks for the bird that shed it.
