Torrents of rain washed in waves down the sidewalks and through the streets making rivers in the gutters and lakes in the roads. Drops hissed and spit and crashed on the little boy’s back.

He bent to the river running in the gutter, fascinated by the minute eddies and swirls and trash dancing before his eyes. What else he saw was a ship, sailing a rough sea. The ship beaten as hard as he was by rain, jerked side to side in its channel as it rushed and bounced in its journey.

The ship carried dreams, imagination, hope, and freedom. It was everything the little boy could put into one creation.

The boat spun in circles and he realized it needed a rudder, a guide to keep it straight and he had the perfect item. He reached inside his pocket to the crow feather that he found last week. It was from a fledgling, a young bird, so it was small and rounded, not too long. It fit perfectly and stayed in place.

The little makeshift boat flew straight through the currents, guided by the feather.