Feathery

We’ll come to the birds later. Start with this tree. It’s feathery.

The size of this feathery tree.

If there were a giant bird thirty to fifty feet high, it would have feathers of an appropriate measure. A giant’s handful of those, bound together at the base, planted into the ground, feathery featherlets reaching up. Such a sense of grace.

I have noticed that of all the trees near this one, the birds seem to prefer this.

They sit and do nothing on it the most. Swaying in the breeze. In what appears to be a state of soul contentment. A tree of bird spirit and of the shape of bird spirit.

It is possible that the birds will hop in and out of this writing at will, whether or not I design and plan it so.

Much that is feathery, but is not bird, is around me.

Ferns grown in pots, placed in balconies, creating space for tea and biscuits at 4 o’clock or 5. Feathery to the touch as an elbow brushes against one, a knee against another.

Tails are feathery. So often I have seen them so.

If tails had wings, the creatures attached to them could fly up backwards.

A fallen tree, roots visible, as the mud clings in clumps to a network of feathery. I have walked in the hills, feathery moss growing out of damp rock keeping me company for hours out and hours back.

In rivers and lakes, the storm water drain. The aquarium, neatly domestic or corporate. I spy the feathery. Underwater plants always thrill me, bending with the flow of a current, delicate strands of shape and spirit feathery. Not all the fish that swim through them are chunky, though some are, and they go well together, a-chunk-a-feather. Some fish have feathery fins.

It’s a feeling. The ease of weightlessness. I am surrounded by this sense. I am the feather of feathery. I am the root of tree. Flowers with their feathery bits that stick up and out of flower insides. Weeds in the grass, weeds are very pretty I think. My coriander, feathery as a bird. There is a lightness to the shape of matter, a birdness so subtle on this kitchen counter.

The fellow that flies wings outflung in perfect glide, doing a half circle against the sky, has spread his tail feathers in a perfect fan.

I stand here waiting, amidst strangers, we have a common purpose.

We wait.

I look at a tree, flowing downwards at me, I feel the grinning. This foliage is feathery. Just in case I don’t get that the feathery is aware of me.

I a-chunk.

I look at the bush below this tree.

Yes. Also feathery.

(From my Leaf and Lighthouse series of posts.)

Leaf

Creatures

Night

Water

Rain Sparrows