A Feather

It's three o'clock in the morning and I cannot sleep.  My head is whirling with problems and worries that I can't resolve, especially at 3am!  I twist and turn.  I read. I get up and drink some water.  I read some more. Twist and turn, more. Finally at five o'clock, I get up and taking my tea I go and sit in the quiet of my garden.  It's still, the air fresh, the sky turning blue, despite the early hour.  I sit in the silence, smelling the early morning smells.  It is so still that the air almost shimmers with it's own noise.  My brain returns to its worries and then, out of the clear blue sky, right there in front of my nose by an inch floats the softest, downiest feather I have ever seen.  It is the feather from the underside of a bird, the palest grey and white; so soft my fingers can barely feel it's presence.  It is a gift. 

For me.