He held it lovingly, like it were a real bird, a house wren. He ran his thumb along that sweet spot where the back meets the tail feathers, the place that quietly demands to be stroked, loved.
He noted the delicate perfection, though his own hands were incapable of such detail. He marveled at the symmetry, though uniformity may forever elude him. He admired its smoothness, though his own knife may never achieve the same.