The Feather ... An Existential Query

I sit atop a flattened rock, smoking my cigarette.
The autumn wind, a taunting foe, hastens street debris to a distainful tempest.
Here, in the alley is to where, I flee. Physically, at the least.

I smoke ... sometimes twice.
How joyous the taste, crisp fall air intermingled with drug laden ghosts of my ill fated future.
Inhaling my escape.

I watch the foot traffic hustle by, unaware of my presence.
Some days, I imagine the lives of these marionettes as they fumble past, to my pleasure.
Some days, my distraction resides within.

Today, I spy a feathery spirit.
Performing the Viennese Waltz with a delicate, yet razor precision.
Her white, downy body alight with the peril in which she finds herself.

A dance, does she, wrings tears from my eyes.
Along the grid of the sewer grate.
She dips and turns and sways.

I catch my breath, she is gone.
But wait ...
The wind, caustic in its sensibilty, lifts her to safety.

A safety so fleeting, she's gone once more.
My heart sinks into the depth of dispair.
I receive the lesson.

Bereft and once again, alone.
I search for the meaning.
Has anyone ever known?

My feather is gone ...
With the grey water and street run off.
I so thought she'd prevail.

Where is the meaning?
What is the point?
Why are we here?

The answers elude scholars and fools.