The Balcony Sweep

That loose pigeon feather from the railing clip wasn't going to archive itself. I scooped the quill up by its frayed tip and marched across the gritty concrete tiles to the far end of the balcony, where an empty wooden planter box sits baking in the afternoon sun. Inside, the dry soil had pulled away from the cedar walls like cracked desert pavement. Standard forensic burial: I planted the feather upright right in a deep fissure of dirt, then used my heel to tamp a dried leaf flat around its base to hold the line. Now this high-altitude post has a flag.