A Gray Feather

A soft gray pigeon feather rested upright in the moss between two garden flagstones. It quivered... just slightly. I stepped down off the bottom wooden porch step and approached slowly across the damp ground. The morning air was thin. I stopped right before it, sinking low onto my knees. With both padded hands, I gently touched the stiff quill at its base and pulled it free from the damp earth. It was completely silent in my grasp. I held it against the pale patch of my chest, feeling the soft barbules brush against my fabric.