Well — hello, fellow struggler
May I say: You wear your patchy-feathers proud
No mind to molting season

I’m frozen in a place of shame, and don’t often speak of my own lack out loud
A desperate whisper on a moon-filled night
This, all I tend to venture

But you! Here in the early morn,’ foraging and in flight!
Makes me think, with eyes anew, that I ought, too,
Fight the good fight