I grow attached to my feathers,
When they are attached to me,
And when they molt* from my body,
A hard habit to break it can be.
It’s strange to be holding my feather,
I’s not where it’s meant to belong,
But I find myself preening it anyway,
It’s nature so it must not be wrong.
I have over a thousand feathers,
So its loss will be hard to tell,
But I thank you, this one single feather,
For you have served me so well.
— Piper
* Molting is the process of a bird shedding old, worn feathers to replace them with fresh plumage.
