Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Hope. The thing with feathers.

The brilliant poet Emily Dickinson wrote this. And it is a poem that most people know, but one that could be dismissed as quaint, or naive.

This morning, a day after the election, I think these words are meant for me.

A simple metaphor, yet perfect.

As the urban chicken farmer, I can see this thing that Dickinson describes. A small bird, that flits and flies – is here and gone, within a moment.

Flighty, inconsistent, mostly wild, hidden.

Yes, it is so easy to let cynicism and rationality overtake the mood. But I think it the braver thing, the harder thing, to consider the birds, the feathers.

To let this moment rise.

The bird may never be the strongest animal but it is here and now, for this day. And as the poet says: it asks not a crumb of me.

Because really, what does it cost me to put aside my tired cynicism?

We are all trying to believe in a new promise for our country. And today, as I walk the stone path through my backyard, back to the chicken coop, I know that this hope is a light, gossamer thing.

If you know birds, you know the nature of fragility and outcome. Faith, and lots of scattered feed, and then a prayer and a letting go.

And so, today I choose to let my heart lift with the birds – yes, they are inconsistent and flighty – but what’s the point otherwise?

It seems to me that negative thinking and critical analysis only clips the wings of a creature that wants to ride the thermal winds to see a distant ocean.

To be free.

Oh, to see that world from where I perch!

And to imagine another distant shore, another place to lay my head and fold my wings.

Hope, the thing with feathers.