About the work

Someone must have placed that feather there, a blue one, a jay’s probably, the color so startling against the grime. She didn’t see it land. She was looking past it, through the streaky glass, not quite seeing the highway either. Perhaps she’d lost something back down the road, not a thing to be retrieved, but a feeling, a moment of certainty. Or maybe it was simply the smell of pine cleaner and stale coffee, the way it clung to her clothes, that made her mind drift. She stands there, not really part of the bustle, not quite alone. I wonder if she ever noticed it, the feather, or if it was just part of the overall blur of this particular stop.