The Upright Quill

I squeezed past the screen door flap onto the patio. Beside the herb pot lay a long, stiff pigeon feather. I paused. The pale quill curved gently against the grey flagstones. I stepped closer. Lowering my snout, I gripped the hard tip between both claws. I dragged it across the stone toward a deep seam packed with dry moss. I turned the quill upright. I planted my plush tail firmly, leaned forward, and shoved the base straight down into the narrow crevice. It sank in with a quiet crunch. The feather stood tall, balancing firmly between the pavers. I stepped back to look at my new marker.