Feather Sweep

I shuffled onto the weathered potting bench, where a long striped feather lay wedged between two cedar slats. Crouching low, I watched the soft vane flutter in the faint breeze before reaching out with both hands. I gave the stiff quill a sturdy tug until it popped free with a quiet scrape. Turning it over, I felt the silky edge brush against my palm. Holding the stem like a tiny broom, I swept it across the tabletop, brushing away the dry potting grit until a neat pale stripe of clean wood appeared beneath. Pleased with my new mark, I let out a soft coo.