Fingers pressed against the meticulously placed feathers evening them out, so they all faced the same direction.
The work was time-consuming and burdensome on the joints and the palms, but when the task became uncomfortable, he simply took in a deep breath and re-focused his efforts. As well, he could not let his mind wander. Every step, every thought, every feeling, and every emotion would reflect itself in his work. The combination of all things must be peaceful and joyous; otherwise, minuscule mistakes would go unnoticed. Once completed, he would stand back to review his work, and if the mis-step made itself known by chance, he would have to take the whole thing apart and begin again. Now seeing the completion of his work, he gently massaged the feathers and then used a soft baby brush to evoke the natural sheen reflecting any light that fell upon it. It was a luxuriously deep black color that took your breath away if you were unprepared for it. It evoked a kind of deep spiritual mana, a sacredness that made you stand back and feel too afraid to approach any closer. It belonged to the night, not the night existing in the darkness, but rather the kind of night which symbolizes the depth of knowledge so profound that several lifetimes must pass before one can become utterly enlightened by such learning. Tears blurred his vision, and he stepped away lest the tears stain the feathers. Indeed, he was the vessel by which the gods empowered his hands with nimble dexterity, and there would be more. But for now, it was this one he loved the most because it was most like himself.
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