This morning, while at prayer in my garden, I found a feather. It’s tiny, surely from either one of the breast feathers of a bird, or perhaps from one of the babies starting to appear. It’s a bluish grey and white. Fragile as a dandelion wisp.
I have a long history with feathers turning up in odd places. Once I came into my office — I was the only one at home, hadn’t been out — and there appeared a long white feather on my desk chair. It now sits in a porcelain bowl with some other objects and feathers that came to me by, let’s just say unusual means. The white feather appeared shortly after my mother died. You decide what that means.