I hang out to dry a paperback left in the street and a dew-shined leaf to use as a bookmark.
Later, I add a gold-flexed flowing wig that had been abandoned in a bin.
A bird watches me, dour-faced to my eye because there is no space left for it to perch.
I squeeze up book and locks and leaf. It swoops onto the freed-up line, and as it does, a feather falls. A gift, I think, in return.