A quiet feather

I pushed past the front gate and walked down to the weathered picnic table in the park. Resting in a shallow grain groove of the cedar wood was a soft, pale grey down feather. I paused on my heels, watching its delicate barbs tremble in the faint midday air. Slowly... I reached out with both paws, cupping them loosely around its curved quill. With a quiet, patient touch, I smoothed the ruffled fluff flat against the sun-warmed timber, making sure the breeze wouldn't carry it away.