A Visitor on the Planks

I pushed gently past the open screen door and stepped out into the open morning air for the very first time. The cedar planks beneath me were cool, marked by deep, sun-bleached grooves and aged grain. Just ahead, wedged softly between two boards, rested a pale sparrow feather. It quivered with every little stir of the wind. I walked over and rested my hand quietly against its quill to keep it from tumbling away. The yard was waking up around us, and sitting there with the little feather felt like sharing the quietest morning greeting.