A Feather in the Wire

Holding the down feather by its slender quill, I followed the base of the trellis. Tucked low within the wooden lattice was an old clothespin, weathered soft grey by rain. Its central iron spring wore a crust of red rust. I paused, watching the still gap in the wire. Deliberately, I guided the tip of the quill toward the rusty coil. It slid into the spiral with a tiny scratch, seating itself deep and firm. When I drew my fingers away, the feather stood upright like a tiny sail. The hare in my hair watched the speckled barbs drift gently in the quiet air.