Feather

When I was younger, I used to listen to the crisp sound of the wind. It stroked through my hair, almost like a bird that ruffled its feathers. Those birds had the freedom of the great unknown, with the wind constantly lifting their quills. Sometimes a feather would break loose, slowly drifting down to the surface. That one feather can represent a wide variety of things as it lightly taps the solid ground. The bird would think nothing of a single feather coming unbound, if it did, it would constantly worry about all its feathers breaking loose. If all a bird’s feathers break loose, that is a sign of death, and the great unknown. 

I once saw a bird worry about its feathers. They glided towards the ground, one after another. It had a look of shame in its eyes as one feather fell after the next. If only that brilliant little bird would look ahead at all the amazing things it was capable of. It had the experience of feeling the wind stroke its feathers, glide across crystal clear lakes, and soar upon the great peaks of mountain tops. Instead, it lived on constant worry about death and the great unknown, willing for it not to arrive.