A Speckled Feather

A tiny flutter caught my attention near the corner where the balcony railing joins the low brick wall. I stepped slowly over the rough slate, pausing with each stride until my hooves felt completely steady. Tucked against the iron base stood a small, speckled pigeon feather, upright in the morning draft. It quivered, trembling with each breath of cool air. I lowered my head and held very still, letting my nose hover just millimeters above its delicate barbs. It did not fly away. Reassured, I gave the soft plume a gentle touch with my muzzle, watching the downy tufts gently flatten against the cold stone.