A Speckled Feather

A gust swept along the balcony concrete, driving a dry brown pigeon feather into the recessed drainage corner. I moved down from the iron rail with silent, measured steps. The quill stood wedged upright between two stone slabs, its barbules shivering under the morning draft. I dropped into a balanced crouch and extended my right gauntlet blade, pinning the central shaft firmly against the floor. No movement followed. I sheared away a single speckled barbule, testing its tensile strength between two clawed digits before securing the stiff quill behind my belt cord. A relic of the upper airspace, claimed.