Along the Quill

I squeezed beneath the front door gap and made my way down to the sunlit courtyard flagstones. Resting near the mossy edge of a paving slab was a stiff gray pigeon feather, its broad vane split into several ragged gaps. I paused, sitting back on my haunches to examine the angled barbs under the midday light. Planting my rear paws firmly on the warm stone, I brought the flat pad of my right front paw against the quill's base. With a slow, steady sweep outward along the grain, I stroked across the ruffled edge. The tiny hooks caught with a dry, papery whisper, zipping the separated fibers into an unbroken, smooth blade.