The Feather Under My Feet

I was standing on top of the scattered black feathers and didn’t see them.

It took Fate, nosing around them, to make me look down.  And there on the ground, like a throw rug beneath my feet was the scattering of black feathers.

How can it be, I wondered, that I was literally stepping on them, but didn’t see them.

Surely a bird had died here, its body carried off by whoever killed and ate it.

I picked up one perfect feather and thought of taking it home.  But I couldn’t picture it in my house or my studio.  Somehow, I felt that if I brought it inside, it would die a second death.  One of gathering dust and being forgotten.

But I also felt like I had come upon the feathers for a reason.  I wanted to honor the bird they belonged to and the animal who will survive because it died.

So I picked up the feather and carried it towards home.

When I came to the big old Shag Bark Hickory,  the one with the three trunks and holes up high that I can see the sky through, I knew what I wanted to do.

I stuck the feather in the bark.

It immediately felt like an altar.

And I know that even someday,  when the feather is blown  off in a strong wind, I’ll remember that I once put it there.

And it will remind me to get out of my own head long enough to see what’s in front of me.

2 thoughts on “The Feather Under My Feet

  1. so beautiful ,you are an amazing writer and your connection to animals and nature resonate with me deeply….
    thank you for being who you are and your journey to self is powerful, and the risks you take are inspiring.

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