So like a leaf, with a transparent white stem that had been battered by a storm; frayed fluff and separated barbs in shades of silvery gray, ochre and indigo. If I hadn’t been looking down I might have missed the feather.

I wondered if the bird who lost it, missed it, or if it took its passing as a commonplace event, like clipping one’s fingernails.

I picked it up and headed home with a lilt in my step; me and my tiny single wing.

©kat – 28 January 2017

Written for an essay writing exercise at the Roanoke Regional Writer’s Conference – 28 January 2017