[=darkgreen]

Today, I ran into Sage. I had promised during the recent fit of rains that on the next time I should see her when the sun was bright, she and I would go feather-hunting. She wants a collection like the one her mother apparently had, and I felt it in my duty to help. Besides a fun way to while away the time.

So when we met, after the briefest moment of indecision (she and I are alike, I think, in that we both wait for the other to act), we set off. We circled around and around the trees, trying to spot a bird's nest or where one rested for a moment, perhaps dropping a feather here or there. We brushed against the bark time after time, circling. The sunlight and the airy nature of our quest had us bounding, my heart soaring, my steps bucking and skipping against the shimmering surface of the land. The path of light and the path of birdsong were one, and we wished to catch the place where both fell to earth.

I rather want to write a poem about it, once the words stop swirling around and become pinnable, collectable like a fallen feather, drifting down… And for the light that came on her face when I spotted one, a white dove feather cradled in the roots of the trees. It made the air sweet, her smile, our ectstatic gasps of surprise: we had both gone looking, but not expected to find. We hopped into the birch forest, hoping to see another, since the birds were thick in the air and darting around the ground, flashing their red or blue-tinted wings. As they flitted underfoot, at the foot of a birch, we found the feather of a red-winged blackbird, fallen from a nest in the high treetops. This was added to her collection, and as we scampered, giddy in our success, towards De Drinkplaats.

We found no feathers, but chased each other as squirrels and bathed in the fountain, darting in and out of the little hidden overlay in the back, hiding there with our whiskers touching.