moult ovenbird When I find a feather in the place our shoes sleep, I wonder which of us is moulting. Probably my son, whose voice keeps lurching into a borrowed baritone. Or maybe my daughter whose sarcasm has certainly grown wings over the last year. Or maybe my husband who finally gnawed all the way to the center of life, just to find it hollow. I catch him watching YouTube videos that explain the rules of pickleball and his repeated mention of single coil pick-ups has me nervous. Or maybe it’s my own, one weightless semiplume, the rachis splintered and the barbules bent. Something shed from my secret underbelly. When I’m alone I pick and preen and try to disguise my bald spots. At dinner we eye each other warily. There were aphids in the kale, but I didn’t bother to wash them away. We could all use the protein. We eat oily fish with the skin fried crisp, lick lysine from our lips, and feel the prick of pin feathers slowly breaking through. 260708 what's it to you? who go blather from