I found a gray feather in our grass this morning. It’s about four inches long. Might be from a mourning dove, but I don’t know for sure.
Almost by instinct. I found myself holding the feather about chest high, quill down. I dropped it, and just before it landed on the ground it started to whirl, like water spinning down the drain.
When I was a kid, the whirl meant that this was a “lucky feather.” So I tried again, this time from above my head. The whirl started sooner, and the spinning went faster.
I don’t remember why we thought these feathers were lucky, and the internet has been no help; I’m pretty sure we weren’t thinking about angels or the meaning of life. Spinning feathers were lucky, and that was it.
Still and all, that humble gray feather has made my day.