Scrubbed hands, feet, face
And went to bed —
A small feather on the bed
Picked it up gently
Hands still damp

Small downy feather
Poised on fingertip
Feather of a baby sparrow

Tucked it inside the pages of a book,
Tenderly closed it.
Now the page is wet too.

Tomorrow morning
It will not multiply
As it once did