Morning is the silver cold color of a razor
You go to bed a thousand years old
and wake up a child
Somewhere in between 
a cobalt bird flew in to your window

You thought it was a dream
You thought the steel drum thud was the sound of feathers going straight through the glass
In the diaphanous, dreamy light
of not quite morning, not quite night
the avian spector circled twice around your room
then nestled himself between your arms and your breastbone
and you slept like that
like familiar lovers

Sleep erased the vices from your veins
the wrinkles from your face
where the bird had lain its beak upon your heart was warm
 warm, warm
but you wake up clutching a pillow
The bird never was
anything but a dream

Later 
in the lilac light of sundown 
below the boughs of the pine tree
that lives outside your window
you see the cobalt corpse upon its coniferous grave
twisted and broken
with none of the grace 
it knew in the bedroom
indigo feathers flaccid and antridden

The tree becomes a landmark
a monument
a museum
The mausoleum of love that died with a sleepy smile,
   flying too close to the sun

![Feather2.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZb6y9CwWE6rdUimHuHHz9nx27j1QRrZyUpCVWLosuaEV/Feather2.jpg)
Hariadhi.<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Feather2.jpg">nps.gov</a>