A Feather in the Clay

I leaned over the rim of the terracotta planter, eyeing the tiny gray feather left behind in the cracked rim. I paused, tilting sideways as a soft autumn gust rattled the dried soil. Slowly, I reached down with two paws and pinched the thin quill between my felt pads. It pulled free with a faint scrape. Instead of letting the wind take it away, I pressed the stem firmly into a dry fissure of potting earth until it stood upright like a miniature gray mast, swaying gently under the open sky.