Colin F. Jones


A feather from an Eagle falls to Earth,
It floats determined where it will finally land,
It seeks not tarmac nor the greener turf,
But gently settles on the desert sand.
The southern zephyr makes its colours dance,
Turning golden in the brightness of the light,
That draws the eye of an Indian maiden’s chance,
To pick it up and cherish it with delight.
The Eagle shrieks applauding the spirits choice,
And sweeps exuberant through the shimmering air,
Hears her warrior song with thankful voice,
As with the feather she adorns her raven hair.
And thus is drawn like a perfect flighted Arrow,
To the heart of the warrior called the Walking Sparrow.