It was perfect.
Only a few inches long, probably
pigeon or seagull, white
soft with a little bit of dove-gray
running through the innervane
above the afterfeathers.
“Look,” I said to my companion,
“A feather for Minet”
I repositioned my walking stick,
shifted by bag and parcels to
the opposite shoulder and bent down,
reached to almost the spot where it rested
at the edge on the flagstone walkway
before I remembered.

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