The Feather

It rested

in the middle of the trail,

too small

to interrupt a journey,

yet impossible

to walk past.

Gray at the tip,

white near the stem,

its edges

still arranged

as though remembering

the bird

that had once trusted them

with flight.

There was no sign

of struggle.

No scattered leaves.

No broken branch.

Only this

single feather

lying upon pine needles

as gently

as snow.

I wondered

how many miles

it had traveled

before deciding

this was enough.

Perhaps

it had crossed marshes

where egrets hunted,

or sailed above

a river

that never noticed

its passing.

Perhaps

it had ridden

a wind

that no longer exists.

Now

an ant paused

to inspect it.

A breeze

lifted one edge,

then let it settle again.

Nothing hurried.

Nothing mourned.

The forest

simply welcomed

one more thing

returning

to itself.

I left it there,

carrying with me

the strange certainty

that not everything beautiful

is meant

to be taken home.