Mark Benjamin commented on a post on Blogger.
I found it when I was around seven years old, living in my grandparent's farm. Alone, as I was always wont to be, I found it.
A crow's feather.
I thought of throwing it after picking it. I mean, there were countless things in nature that held more interest; toads, rocks, crickets, badgers. But the crow's feather sang a song to my soul, fluttered wings of imagination to make my mind soar.
I took it home.
As I sat, alone, as I was always wont to be, I dipped it into my ink jar. I remembered seeing it somewhere, a quill, on Grandpa's black-and-white television, or did I read it in a book, or hear it among Grandma's friends? That quills were the pens in use in the time of some bloke named Billy Shakes-A-Pear (who shakes pears? Must be someone as crazy as the farmer who counts his chickens before they hatched, the same one who's farm is by the river.)
I put the quill to paper, drawing, dipping, drawing. Again and again. Of the butterflies I saw that day.
And then it happened.
The butterflies came to life. Breathing and crawling and flying from my page, fluttering around my head.
That's the first time I realised it.
I would never again be alone, as I was always wont to be.
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