The softest feather at night
blooms its shadow against the wall,
a tuft from atop a doll's hat.
She stares wonderstruck,
maybe she is thinking of the sea.
Yet, the feather's shadow growls
opens its mouth to devour
with its sharpened teeth.
I fear he might gulp us up.
Feathers has all the letters
needed to spell fears.
And I wonder if all this time
I have been looking
at the actual thing
or the shadow formed by it.
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