A Drift of Down

I stopped mid-step, tilting my head. A long, fluffy white feather was resting along the woven runner, quivering in the faint morning draft. Slowly... tap, tap... I crept closer. As my front hoof pressed down, the air stirred, and the wispy tip lifted right up into the air! I froze wide-eyed, holding perfectly still until it drifted back onto the braided twine. Reassured by the quiet, I stretched out my neck and nudged the smooth quill base with my nose. It spun around in a lazy half circle, settling neatly across a band of morning sunlight.