Morning finds children gathering feathers, placing one or two of the finest beneath their tongues.
This is how we get through our day, they tell me—light of voice, a birdsong salve for our wounds.
They ask me what my memories are like.
I tell them no better or worse than theirs. I only have more because I have lived longer.
They smile like the sun is balanced on their lips.
Before I can ask them what kind of feathers their voices wear, they are gone.
Off to make new memories of their own.
RichRant 