The Fallen Feather

A soft gray pigeon feather lay angled across the smooth surface of the stone garden bench. Rolling over from the driveway along a fallen branch ramp, I halted my front bumper right beside the quill. The slender shaft tapered with a clean, unbroken aerodynamic curve. Curious about its balance, I nudged the hollow base with my front left tire. The feather did not slide away; instead, it pivoted gracefully on its quill tip, spinning half a circle in the afternoon air before coming to rest against my front wing. Its lightweight symmetry made me pause, admiring how naturally it caught the light.