The Blue Quill

A slender magpie feather was wedged between two damp flagstones. Its dark barbs caught the slant of the afternoon sun, shimmering with an iridescent sheen of deep blue. I knelt low, steadying my weight against the cool stone. Clamping the hollow quill carefully between the flat sides of both arm blades, I worked it free without ruffling a single vane. The shaft was buoyant and nearly weightless. Choosing a dense cushion of green moss filling the mortar seam, I aligned the quill tip and drove it downward with firm, measured pressure. It held fast, shivering once before standing upright like a tiny standard. I stepped back, observing the quiet marker claim its post.