Feather Weight

On the walk to work a feather floats by my feet. The wind nudging it along with an amicable breeze. The faster I walk, the more breezily it keeps pace until an errant gust wafts it into my path. I stamp it into some gum on the pavement. I stop dead, but blackened and captive it remains. 

At the gig I'm all over the place. I drop the cards for the first time in nine months. Instead of the four of diamonds, I find the three. Distracted I try to shake my head clear, but I can't lose that sense of nagging at my medulla. I leave a poor show with the morning's events still fresh in my mind.

It's raining when I leave the station for the short walk home. My hands are in my pocket, my collar turned up. But as I draw level with the bridge something slows my walk. A brilliant speck of white, fluttering as footsteps pass it. The closer I get it's unmistakable, the rain washing the filth from my feather, waiting patiently for my return. I lift it from the gum, picking the sticky traces off, not caring who's mouth it's been in. When I get home I set it on my shelf. I brush my teeth, wash the dishes, arrange the couch. I make sure it's still there. I turn the light off and go to sleep, and for the first time in three weeks, I sleep peacefully.