Days were short and buckled,
the dinner to prepare, our table
to set, cream and tan plumage to fan

in a gold-rimmed goblet, hint
of flight.  Together we hunted
wild turkey feathers, tracked

hay fields where flocks lumbered
in summer, walked a trail over
to the next road, followed it past

the last house as gravel gave in
to double mud ruts strung
under high tension towers stacked

on a hill of scrub oak and granite
where we found a feather more
than once and understood always.

Grace MatternGrace Mattern’s poems and prose have appeared in The Sun, Prairie Schooner, Hanging Loose, Calyx, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from the NH State Arts Council and Vermont Studio Center and has published two books of poetry. She has worked in the movement to end violence against women for 35 years. She blogs at