What we need is a pig
And a feather.
The pig to wander around the yard,
Eating slop in the sublime happiness
Of not knowing
the platter on the dinner table,
adorned with shallots, chives,
once hanging above its rosy ears.
The feather to sift gracefully
the inspiration of flight,
curved by gravity’s pull,
lifted by ether
to trace its path into the bucket.
What of the man, sitting in the shade of my apple tree?
He lifts his gaze to the empty sky,
Catching a glimpse of the feather making its dance,
The pig sniffs the feather,
A thump is heard, branches rattling.
The man pats his head,
his stomach rumbling,
meanders into the house.