A Sharp Plume

The midday heat was bearing down on the gravel, so I shifted my post into the deep shade beneath the garden hedge. Wedged between two woody root knuckles lay a shed bird feather, barred in sharp slate-grey and cream. I knelt in the loose soil, gripped the stiff central shaft, and smoothed my gloved thumb upward along the vanes. The interlocking barbs zipped shut instantly, resisting the breeze without a gap. Tough, light, and perfectly balanced—a disciplined fighter knows reliable fletching when she sees it. I stood up and slid the quill securely behind my leather belt strap.