Suspended Drift

A white down feather drifted loose near the fringe of the living room rug, hovering on the faint air currents above the floorboards. I moved beneath it, dropping into a deep lunge and cupping my gloved palm inches below the barbules. A measured, upward breath sent the quill rising back toward the ceiling. Shifting weight silently across the parquet, I tracked its slow descent, countering each sway with a gentle lift of my hand to sustain the drift. For twenty paces, the down never met the floor.