Glide Path

I'm late for work and she's asking for a ride
Still need to haul the swampy recycling bins to the curb.

Slick, dip-manicured nails seek purchase under
plastic rims of unearthly blue county-issue crates.

I trek down the drive, taking care to avoid
trailing slimy wet container bottoms along my cuffs.

I clamp my canines, curl my lip
as I see in my periphery my Dyson-dried hair
re-coils and swells in volume,
my once shiny follicles dulling with morning moisture.

"So glad I took the time to blow-dry!"
I snark aloud to no one.

That is, except the Lululemoned neighbor,
her eyebrow cocked in assessment,
pulse-checking my emotive state,
and her less concerned, grinning goofy-faced golden retriever,
who've both snuck up behind me
as I parked the mixed materials recycling in the grass.

Hair ruined, I might as well check the mailbox.
I bat at mosquitos hovering near my head,
swatting would-be predators from my exposed skin.

Slam the letter box's metal swing door shut;
clutch a slim pile of envelopes to my chest.

I retrace my way up the steep drive,
cutting left towards the front entry.

As I ready myself to re-enter conditioned air
(and a child's on-pause pre-first bell temper tantrum)
something bright draws my eyes downward.

Plasma-hunting insects and humidity bedamned,
I crouch one knee,
risk soiling my summer suit trouser leg,
to peer down on the flagstone step.

My grievances melt away
like my makeup in this muggy,
fluid atmosphere
that goes for air around here.

Anger off, Curiosity on, I peer down:
a single ruddy wing feather greets me:
Hello!

Ivory quill upward, the rachis faces me.
Its uncountable barbs shimmer as one,
evoking the whorls of a fingerprint,
the baleen of a whale's mouth,
its barbules both slick and fluffy
depending on the angle.

The tip of this remex darkens into nutmeg,
carrying proof of many flights through these woods.
A slight disturbance between two barbs towards the quill
offers further evidence of flight-borne wear and tear.

The singular feather gives me hope
of a seasonal molting for this hatch-year lad,
rather than a scuffle with a pointy-eared,
pointy-toothed red fox.

I rise off my knee,
reclaim my stature,
and stare up into the canopy above,
seeking the Northern Cardinal's glide path.

While I don't find him,
I do recapture my calm, my purpose.
and for that,
I give thanks to the gifts of the forest.