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Ode to the Moult
A feather here, a feather there
That's how the moult begins;
A simple warning's all we get
No matter our chagrin.
Midsummers' Eve, you see my friend
Is when the clock starts ticking;
To every surface in your house,
The feathers soon are sticking.
Feathers, feathers everywhere,
To every place they creep;
Feathers, feathers everywhere,
Hark how the vacums sweep.
And everywhere you chance to look
The feathers they doth bloom;
Whether long, or short, or downy,
They gather round the room.
Brown and yellow and gray and white,
Like little ghosts they flitter;
Around about in fickle breeze,
Across the floor they skitter.
Poor birds a-preening on their perch
How sober is their spirit;
For with the start of feather fall
Their song no more you hear it.
It's sad to see you little one,
A-sitting there so grumpy;
Pin feathers growing in I fear,
Have made you look quite frumpy.
All is not bleak for our dear birds
There's light at tunnel's end;
For like the sun behind a storm
Their song will come again.
And with the finish of the moult
Our birds are soon a-twitter;
So bright of eye with feathers new
Like little jewels they glitter.
A feather here, a feather there
Is how the moult began;
And it will come again next year;
On that you can depend.
Sharon Klueber
Sept. 2000
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