I carry a broken feather everywhere I go. I drag the crooked tip through the heavy sand on my walks and travels. The trail that this blackened feather leaves is always carved sharply into the ground. As zephyr winds may blow or rains might fall, I know to trust this line to lead straight to me. Not many try to follow the stroke that winds wherever I may wander. Few bother to look for my tracks at all, but from this tracing on the ground, my big sister has always found me. She has watched from faraway and nearby as the contour twisted and twirled under my feet. For her, I forever try to remember to cut deeply as I trek onward.