In the quiet dawn, feathers drift,
Carried by whispers of the wind,
Gentle touches on the morning air,
A dance that knows no end.
Soft as the sighs of sleeping trees,
They float in silent grace,
Each one a story, a memory,
Of skies they once embraced.
Feathers of white, of brown, of gold,
A tapestry of dreams,
Weaving through the azure skies,
Like threads in sunlit beams.
Their journey endless, their spirit free,
They roam without a tether,
Reminding us of boundless hope,
In the whispers of a feather.