The Grey Feather

A soft, pale pigeon feather had settled quill-first into a narrow crack between two wooden slats of the low garden bench. Shuffling closer with slow, patient steps, I reached up both paws to grip the slender white stem. With a gradual tug, it slipped free with a tiny whisper against the weathered wood. The downy barbs were surprisingly light, trembling faintly in the still air. Propping my back firmly against the bench's cool iron leg, I cradled the quill securely across my lap, watching its wispy edge sway with each quiet breath of the afternoon breeze.