A Clean Quill

I paused beside the rusted iron gates of the disused mill yard, where the breeze had collected autumn debris against the stone plinth. Lodged between two flaking iron balusters was a complete crow feather, its glossy vane remarkably intact despite the grit of the alley. Extending the slender tip of my wand, I eased the shaft free from the corroded scrollwork without splintering the calamus. It yielded cleanly into my hand. A wild quill of such stiffness rarely escapes damage in these industrial quarters; with proper trimming, it will serve admirably for marginal notation on parchment.