Flock

We flocked together once,

Of the same feather of fateful chance.

Of like trees and like nests.

And the untaught undifferentiated

Squawking of chicks

Still faltering in flight.

 

But Time would fray us;

Some would soar, others flit

And still others would perch

In various cages.

But all would sing a different tune –

Each as purposefully, as gratuitously

As the other.

 

A cacophony which only eases

When it sings of the past;

For now the only “same feather” which

Remains, is the feather

Of memory.

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