Feathers Flying

I cannot sleep, I cannot keep from chasing thoughts that lead to troubles, 

real or imagined. 

I go outside, I try to hide in the solace of the night, 

but my thoughts come with me.

A sound sweeps by through this night's sky, then another. It's the rush

of wind through feathers, flying, on the wing.

I leave behind my fretful mind and begin to dream that I have wings, 

that I am flying.

The sound soon fades, again the shades of doubt surround me. 

It was just the wind, or my imagination.

Then something twirls, it spirals, whirls into my hand, one small feather

fallen, fallen from the wing.

I close my hand around it and go back to bed. I close my eyes 

and soon I'm sleeping.

Again I hear a sound come near - the rush of wind, of feathers flying.

I must be dreaming.

A great wing lifts, it circles, drifts. It is searching for the fallen,

the one small feather held within my hand. 

The great wing fans, the sky it spans. The wing sweeps back,

scoops up the feather and takes me with it.

Now comes to me with mystery, in whispers like secrets, tales of now,

tales of old, and stories of tomorrow.

I listen to what dreamers do where they have flown upon the wing 

in the time between now and everafter.

And when I land in morning's hand within my own rests a feather, 

my keepsake of the wing. 

Oh, feathers fly, so can I, for it is the dream that is the wing

that takes us flying.

Yet I wonder...

as my dream flies through distant skies, should another feather fall, 

could it be my dream that circles back to catch it?