A downy, white feather twists languidly, drifting downward.

I spot it as I stand on my balcony.
I’m transfixed,
compelled to follow the feather to its final resting place,
be it inside or outside the rail.

I’m transfixed because it moves impossibly slowly;
gravity’s hold on it is tenuous,
a puppy’s breath could put it on another course —
changing its fate.

And in those moments of lazy falling,
I, too, feel fateless.