A moment ago, in a kingdom from tomorrow, the wind carried a silver-winged bird aloft. And as it flew, it brought change with it. This bird knew not its origin, nor its destination, and yet it flew on across the sprawling country. The fiery sun shed its dying light dimly on the silver wings as the bird soared through the purple, orange and blue paint-stroked heavens. The bird was flame. It was hope.
At last, as evening settled in, the bird came to rest on the branch of a birch, leaves flushed red from the coming frosts. It sat for a moment, glowing in the high moon's luminous gaze. The bird then began to sing the most entrancing song that ever filled the night. It was a hymn that spoke of love and loss. Birth and death. And any human who would have heard would have been brought to tears.
The silver light trickled down the branch to a spider's thread which wound around the twigs, sticking slightly to the bird's feet. The single thread led to a web, where sat the spider and its prey.
The silver bird ceased its song, tilting its head to look upon the web. In curiosity, the bird pecked its beak on the branch near the web. It then sensed an impending doom, and launched back into the star speckled sky. However, in its fright, the silver bird left behind a solitary, silver feather, entrapped in the glistening strands of the spider's web.
This tale I tell tonight is that of the silver feather, how it touched the lives of many. How they used it. How it altered their fates.
The feather will travel far, but ultimately, will change nothing.
