A Single Feather

A Single Feather Emily Salmonsen

She asked me about the birds, if I knew about the strictness of their migratory routes. A bird must travel across the world, feather and bone, straining to follow the flock and settle in warmer lands together.

We sat in the sun together, chatting idly about the lives of birds and watching our children flock toward a freshly-placed bowl of chips. I saw a feather fall on the balloon shaped like an A.

By nightfall, that balloon shaped like an A had popped, and we popped the rest together and the feather fell. It was a beautiful feather. In Maryland, it was illegal to collect birds’ feathers, to prevent the hunting of said birds, but I never even saw the flock.

I couldn’t have killed one bird from the flock. I showed it to her, and she agreed; what a beautiful feather, rows and rows of color, let’s find a place for it together. We should consider it a gift from the birds; we didn’t do anything to find the feather.

I found the place for the feather on the cord for our ceiling fan. Our flock of children was still too small to reach the birds’ gift, so we didn’t worry too much that a single tiny hand could ruin it. Together, we tied it on with a bit of glue, of course.

Even now, years and years of use haven’t tarnished the feather a bit, somehow holding together. Though the adults that were once our flock have migrated south, a single feather will remain: a gift from the birds.

Wilted triptych by Natalie Meador gouache & Micron pens on paper