About the work

The feather must have traveled miles. It’s too large for a city bird, too pink for anything native to the scrubland just beyond the highway. Perhaps it fell from a truck carrying exotic birds, a late delivery to some rich man’s garden. Or a child on a bus, heading home from a birthday party at the zoo, held it out the window. It rode the thermals, drifted over the rooftops, settled here, perfectly, during the lunch break. This is the only clean thing in the alley.