season of teeth grinding

I wake up in a season of teeth grinding, and when I sleep the season has changed to feathers.

Children are collecting the feathers,
which litter the ground in a lint
of goose waddling.
Geese don't have teeth.

A child holds the stiff quills in a posy.

Vanes make a pattern of fringing and unfringing, a decorative edge
for the day's unraveling.

I can name the teeth: incisors, canines, premolars, molars.

I have two baby teeth, which have survived decades.

I grew exactly one wisdom tooth that pierced
the soft inner cheek. A dentist pulled it during a routine exam,
not enough room in my mouth.

I know how to locate the ache exactly.

The dentist also demanded I stop grinding.

Consciousness like a dream
except for the stiffness in my jaw.

I pool lament, empathizing with geese who are grounded
during molt.

They hoard a rivulet, stepping on and off
the bank.

Feathers make artful flying, a joy
the geese can only flat feet for now.

You could say bills are like teeth.

Feathers are unique to the bird family, that remain toothless.

You could say aching is for families, which the geese know,
preening for neck rubs and back balance.