A Feather on the Wood

I crawled out from the hollow of sycamore leaves under the bench. Right beside the mossy bench leg, a tiny grey pigeon feather was caught in a rough groove of the timber. I knelt down with quiet knees and gently grasped the hollow quill between two fingers. It came loose with a delicate, soft flutter. I brushed the downy edge across the back of my hand, marveling at how warm and airy it felt. Tucking the stem into the waistband of my dress, I sat watching the morning shadows slowly shift.