Feather Light

Feather Light

The crow sat atop a lamp post, as it did most every night while prowling the graves of the dead, sharp black eyes reflecting only the dull wit of a hungry bird. The crow ruffles from it’s perch, beak nibbling at some unseen saboteur to it’s daily rituals, oil preened through each strand of black silk. But then it happened, much as it may have surprised the bird or not, that a feather would float from this raven, pried out by his own beak to set against the wind. The crow pays it no mind… it is but one of many, and there is much to be done, so much to be done here. But what would the feather think?

This bit of down sat on strands of nothingness, floating lazily across the headstones of so many taken from the world. By each and every did the feather hang for a moment, tarrying before the grave of a child. Thomas, was his name. Born 1890, died 1894. A child who hadn’t even come to understand what the world meant. It may be viewed a tragedy, to die so young. The parents left to greave as they buried their child, their only child as heart break and earnest never lead them to another, in a coat of cedar. Still another passer by, whom knew nothing of the child, stopped to place a stone at the site. He thanked God for taking him, the child to never know the true cruelties of man. He’d never know the pains of love, the pains of deaths. He had been… spared. It may have been the feathers intent to blow back the dust of time on this child. Or it may have been the will of the wind. It doesn’t matter, however, as the next blast sends the intrepid feather to air once more, tumbling as so much debris.

The wind twisted, this way and that, the fine hairs catching every bit of propulsion. It simply had no choice, nor the will to care. An airborne thing that can not choose its way. It floated from the grave sites, the crow giving a mournful screech of farewell to his favorite piece of adornment. Though truly the crow never paid any attention to it aside from this day, giving it no more mind then the rest of his plumage. It was only once it had left him that he had missed it. He watched in melancholy as it flew, before the crows stomach guided its eyes, reconciling his loss with a creature too small to fight back as it swooped. And then the feather was gone from mind.

Our tiny hero tossed about, too inanimate to care, too laid back to fight. Too tragic a notion to even consider, the losing battle, simply riding the tides of ether to the sky, to flit about cloud stuff amongst freezing moisture. The sky had been dark for hours now, strangling jet across the earth. The bit of ebony, our feather, only able to be seen from pale clouds and moonlight as it watched the world below. It seemed that while our feather had taken to adventuring the world and viewing its wonderment, the earth below had fallen to sleep. Flowers closed their petals, the creatures of night fall had settled, nearly every creature slumbered silently. All except one thing. A literal thing, a substantial thing, but just a thing none-the-less. A simple want written into its destiny. To experience and see so much, while it’s short time still belonged to the sky. The shard of sable watched the sunrise, as things below stirred. It would be a beautiful sight to most anything with eyes, a flash of gentle light breaking the grip of stygian on the earth. But very few would actually see it. The feather had no time to watch much longer though, the breeze dropping it’s weight downwards. Even a feather must fall sometimes.

So it plummeted, as much as a feather can indeed plummet, spinning gently in an irrevocable dive, spiraling, flailing. The earth rushes to meet our friend, promises of comfort, of solidity. To make it more then a bit of trash on the wind. To belong to the grass in embrace and never let go. The feather ignored it, the wind finding its toy once more, sending him sailing above the cities. There it was he found new crows to gander, each ones eyes hungry for food, only straying for a moment to watch it’s passing, considering the act of snatching it. One was so bold to do so, it’s beak parting to grasp it as the feather hung for a moment, before swiftly dodging and coming to its senses. They cawed after it, the feather so beautiful, to place in their nests, or stuff amongst their own. The feather had grown tired of ravens and the like. It was a trite notion. Been there. Done that. And so it left, flying lower still amongst the people. The haze of smog and fumes of industry staining the gentle oil across it’s strands.

Hurried steps are all about now, so much noise that the acuity of hearing in these things had softly weakened over time, leaving them next to deaf in their own devices, which made them only that much louder if only to hear themselves. The feather saw it now, the bright lights of color mocking its ruddy fashion, the hues gawking at such a natural thing to come their way. What was this thing then? What had dared to arrive as it was to dance along our streets without a bit of blush on its cheeks, or cologne to its neck. What was this appalling thing that acted as if it was good enough to remain in the company of the designed, the manufactured and calculated, the whispers enough to drive any woman to shame and any man to grimace. But the feather did not care. It couldn’t, is better a way to put it, the feather landing within the gutter, the liquid contagion cementing it by the side of a homeless man. It couldn’t even breath a sigh of relief to hear the whispers end, just past the train tracks.

The glare of fire catches the feathers attention, the wind desperately pawing at its play thing still fastened to the ground by the carrion of skyscrapers, the homeless gathered about a trash can with bottles in hands. There voices are light hearted here. They are as people again, when the feather saw their torments about the corners. Had it been a façade? Had it been all in jest? Was it owed in part to the bottles they held, brown paper masking the contents, but not the scent of spirits on their tongue? It may have been many things as they speak of their pasts, each one smiling broadly as they relive their glory amongst those whom either care, or at least care enough until it was their moment of grandeur to speak. The feather watched them. It became one of their own. One of the men grasped their chest, the expression of pain crossing his lips as his body shuddered. Not moments before he had spoken of his days amongst pious, until either his church had been closed, or God simply… didn’t need him to do his bidding any longer. While the rest of the men lay sleeping, he twisted in agony, his breath far too gone to cry for help. It was best that way. No help would possibly make it in time for Jeremy. No help but the soft calls of angels descending, disguised as a crow as it landed and bit the mans cheek in contemplation, before flying away. The rest of the men awoke the next day and, distraught of their loss in their patchwork family, lay a blanket over his body and summoned the police. They were quickly dispatched for loitering afterwards, and the feather was left alone.

No wind to carry it, no will to crawl, the feather lay there in the grime. Chemicals of various origin seeping into it’s hollow shaft, decay setting to its strands. It had lived its life now, a full day along the breeze. It may seem grim, but in the end, a feather couldn’t have asked for more. Leaving everything it ever knew, and learned to know only to leave it again, the experiences the feather carried were indeed grand. But there would be none to tell it’s tale. The birth from oppression, the daring escape from claw and gravity. The mockery it held high against, the lives it saw come and go. The meaningless and meaningful, that bring tears or sighs, or simple shrugs of the shoulder. No one would ever know that the filthy feather stuck to the bottom of their high heels was in fact of so adventurous a nature that it had lived possibly more then they had. The feather did not care. But I did.

And so I wrote this for it. My dearest feather. I will always remember it fondly as I preen my back. The space left there will never be quite the same again.