Soft, virgin white feathers,
Aware of my presence
But not of my world.
Before me, another world,
No analytic philosophy,
No targets, budgets or schedules.
No self-appraisal,
Or attempt to be
Something other than
Just part of.
Now she rests,
Head tucked under wing, 
Slowly drifting down stream,
Among the reeds and dragonflies
And the trees on either bank.
I stayed a while,
Until the moment was lost
But not forgotten,
A picture to place
Upon this page.


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