A Speckled Feather

A tiny gray feather was caught right in the groove of the sliding door runner. I stepped off the rug and padded over, keeping my belly low. It did not flutter. It just waited in the thin morning draft. I nudged the smooth quill with one paw, rolling it over onto the pale wood floor. The tip was soft and banded with brown speckles, smelling faintly of dry wind and morning air. I tucked it gently against the skirting board so it wouldn't drift away.