Mornings like this...

It is a grey, crisp morning. I was outside, watching three birds on a tree, imagining what conversations they could be having as they chirped and sang to each other. My gaze shifted lower, to the left, and a white feather floated downward, I have no idea from where it had travelled. It twirled in the air, lingering in places, up and down, then around... I wished for it to stay, I wished that I would not lose it. And then it fell, as if it were waiting to be taken, so that once again it could belong to someone. I picked it up and looked around, just to be certain that I had been its chosen one. The birds had left.