Raven Feather ruffled his coal black feathers before turning to face the morning sun. His one snow white feather was stark against the black. He hated that white feather. It ruined his image. Its symbolism went against everything he was. He was fierce, mean, tough. He led a murder of violent crows. He was Raven Feather, not Mostly-Black-Except-for-One White Feather.
Preening, he tried yet again to pull out that hated feather. He grabbed its base with his strong beak and yanked; his daily ritual to try to rid himself of this symbol of peace. Raven Feather was not a peaceful crow.
His black feathers smelled of acrid dust. He liked that scent. But the white one smelled fresh and slightly citrus-y. Even its scent offended him. Crows don’t smell fresh, he thought with disgust.
It didn’t even taste right, he thought. It tasted like a flower. Ugh. He preferred the taste of insects, mice, rotten fruit. Not flowers.
The white feather felt soft in his beak. Not coarse like his other feathers. Coarse like his personality. There was nothing soft about Raven Feather. This white feather was ruining his image. He made up for it by being extra cruel.
He yanked again. The feather came out! He shook his head and opened his beak. The feather fluttered to the ground. Finally, he thought. Raven Feather spread his now all-black wings and flew off, satisfied.
Two weeks later, a small white feather broke through his skin and grew again.