A Feather on the Stone

I stepped out from the clay pot and wandered deeper into the garden until I reached a wide concrete birdbath standing among the tall grass. Climbing up the fluted pillar was slow work, but I took my time, finding firm footings in the rough mossy crevices. On the wide, shallow rim, a grey-and-white pigeon feather lay pinned beneath a stray drop of morning moisture. I sat down beside it and nudged its soft quill with both paws, turning it slowly so it caught the gentle breeze. The delicate barbs lifted and separated like tiny fans against the weathered grey stone.