Feathers in the Mud

Two feathers.
A bit of mud.
A small puddle reflecting the sky.
Rain on the way. You can smell it in the air.

Somewhere a bird flys.
a reminder that in the end
it is the things we shed
that allow us to fly.

About this poem. 

A busy mind this morning. This poem started as a poem of self-recrimination, fully of my depression. But I have the tools to beat it back. And I did. And as I did, the poem involved into a reminder I needed to hear.

And maybe you do too.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom