He never believed in his magic being particularly potent |
until the rat trap caught four fat ones then a tiny sparrow. |
That’s why you shouldn’t set your spells and forget about them |
he was told over and over he saw feathers on concrete |
whenever he closed his eyes— wanting to keep them out of mind |
but more come flying back looking for the trap hexed to fulfill |
his hope of catching something warm to hold, so still he sets spells |
fully knowing they return in unexpected forms. |
He doesn’t mind all the feathers all the red concrete |