"And he loved feathers with a passion." From Alain de Botton, The Philosopher's Mail, "The Great Philosophers 13: John Ruskin"
By the time I noticed, it was already floating up above my head, turning gently, impossibly. Had a spider’s bridge thread caught it? No— no glimmer of light on a line, nothing to hold it there, spinning lento…adagio…except a small whirlwind just big enough to carry one feather aloft, riding some other miracle—a temperature differential, the dance of heat rising off asphalt kissing the air sinking cool within deep shade cast by a bank building. Of such ordinary things— physics, weather, the shifting seasons, a dove’s disjecta membra—is such unlikely beauty made. If I'm lucky, my gaze will always lift and follow.