A Feather on the Dial

The quiet inside made me want to walk out into the garden. I made my way down the brick path until I reached the weathered stone pedestal of the sundial. Resting against its bronze gnomon was a pale pigeon feather, caught in a tiny crevice. I approached with quiet steps, placing both soft palms against the warm, rough limestone to steady myself. Leaning in close, I took the slender quill between two fingers and eased it out gently. Instead of letting the breeze carry it off, I tucked the quill firmly into a narrow fissure of the carved stone base, where its soft barbules could rest undisturbed.