Benjamin Rush, famous colonial era doctor

"Writing About Photography"

It was odd that the feather picked a brick wall as its destination.
The delicate feather bears its full weight against the fortress.
Nothing could be further from the reality the feather had known all its life.
Soft plumage and flight had been its only taste of the world.

Get out of my way; I can do this.
No matter if our universe be godless or divine –
Children ran and screamed here, pretending they were on safari.
Mothers waited impatiently for tiny urchins.

The snow melted their virgin footprints.
A younger brother determined to show his older brother that he has grown into a "big boy."
The pieces are almost sterile.
The whole possesses a type of urban beauty.

It reminds me of my grandparents' house.
It stops time for a moment.
It can exhibit something wild.
We are here, we exist.

Isn't life a unique juxtaposition?
What happened before this moment?
What happens now?
What is bricked up here?

A single feather raises similar questions.
At the same time it leaves much to be desired.
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Where does that leave the feather?

John Carroll