A stray pigeon feather

Woke up right against the terracotta pot. Morning air out here smells cold, but there is a fresh strip of sunshine stretching across the grey concrete floor. I tilted my round weight, gave two lazy shuffles, and rolled right into the warmth. A pale grey pigeon feather was stuck in a groove between two concrete slabs. Every small gust of morning breeze made it spin on its quill tip like a slow little compass. I nestled my plush side flat against the rough ground, just watching it turn. Neat trick.