The Drifting Feather

A pale down feather was caught against the warm wooden rung of the garden bench. I paused two strides away, watching its wispy edges flicker in the quiet air. I had never touched something that looked so weightless. Stepping closer, I reached out a front paw and gave it a soft tap. Instead of scraping along the wood, it instantly took flight, tumbling in a slow, airy spiral right over my ears. I tilted my chin up, tracking every sway until it drifted gently back down against the grain. I rested my paw lightly over the quill, holding it still.