Breezes blowing

Yesterday, between snow squalls from slate gray skies and bits of sunshine from blue, I roamed our trails slowly.
This is the season of change, almost daily—
leaves burst forth from buds, and birds’ feathers brighten.
Like the clouds, changing moment by moment.

A pair of Mallards has been spending time on our pond.
Each time I approach, they fly off. Maybe it’s best—the tracks I’ve seen back here suggest a hungry neighbor patrols often.

A handful of small, white feathers floats in the center across the surface of the muddy water —the breeze pushing each little vessel to the edge where it is caught, moored on grasses in the shallows.


They appear to be breast feathers—each delicately curved, splashed with a brown tip.
It seems unusual that so many have fallen here. Were they preened, or did something happen in the sky above, dropping them onto the pond?



By the time I return past, they’re barely visible—faint spots scattered and hidden in the weeds.

Spring breezes move life quickly past.