Spring-Loaded Quill

Spotted a stiff, mottled flight feather snagged in the moss between two patio pavers. Much too springy to leave alone. I dragged the thick quill over to a fresh crack, jammed the tip down tight, and stood it upright like a miniature flagpole. When a brisk afternoon draft swept across the stones, the whole plume whipped back and forth like a metronome. Naturally, I leaned my wide hat brim right against the vane to test the tension. Bad calculation—or brilliant one, depending on who you ask. The shaft bowed, loaded up with torque, and snapped forward, flicking my hat straight up and pitching me flat onto a cushion of clover. Still vibrating. Ten out of ten spring action.