Anchored to the Pier

I carried my gull feather all the way down to the weathered wooden boat dock. Coiled beside a rusted iron cleat lay a thick hemp mooring rope, its coarse strands stiff with dried salt spray. Planting my white boots firmly on the damp gray timber, I wedged the pointed quill deep into a braided gap in the rope. It slid between the rough fibers with a snug, satisfying squeeze. When the steady breeze drifted off the water, the feather caught the draft and swayed gently like a tiny ship mast, held rock-solid by the heavy coils.