A Feather on the Timber

My toes moved steadily across the warm grain of the morning floorboards. Right in the middle of a pale yellow pool of sunlight lay a small, mottled sparrow feather, curved like a shallow canoe. I paused three inches away, letting the quiet warmth settle under my chest while watching the delicate barbs tremble in a faint indoor draft. Slowly, I reached forward and nudged the hollow quill with my snout. It spun half an inch on the smooth varnish, silent and light as dust. I stepped closer, lowering my chin directly across the soft down, perfectly content to share the quiet beam.