7 feathers. A love story, not for the faint of heart... (or stomach)
Yesterday was a very interesting day indeed.
Once, before we moved here, John was jumped and beaten by a gang of guys... it was a failed attmept to rob him. He came home bloodied and sore, and missing his favorite hat. It was an old beat up winter hat, navy blue, he had for a LONG time. A day or so later I tracked the road through the snow and found his hat in the street, slushy, flat and run over. I brought the hat home and washed it, thus making it quite fancy again.
John was grateful.
Yesterday John retrieved something for me. Not something I had lost, but something I needed to set free.
(rest of story under cut for those with weak stomachs)
On the way to take the girls to summer camp yesterday I came across what I believed was a crow in the middle of the road. I couldn't see very well so on the way back to go to work I slowed down to look, and as I passed the wind blew one if it's wings up as if it were waving me down... it was definitely a crow.
My heart sank at the sight of this. Most likely it was a young crow who hadn't learned the skills of the road just yet, as crows here rarely fall victim to the perils of the road.
I called and left John a message at lunch mentioning what I'd seen and almost saying that I wished I could have brought him home to allow him a proper burial. I would never ask John to go onto a dangerous road and pick up roadkill (crow-dkill) in order that I could satisfy my bizarre urge to bury my bird brother.
He brought the bird to me.
It was in a box, under the back porch when I got home.
It smelled pretty bad after a day in the sun, and very little was salvagable from this beautiful animal.
I put on heavy rubber gloves and John and I proceeded to take both feet and the one good wing he had waved me down with. I tried to salvage other feathers from him, but being so badly maimed and damaged, I could only save 7.
I named him Seven Feathers because of this.
I am in the process of preserving the parts that I kept, in a very Native American-type fashion.
As for the rest of him, We dug him a burial plot, and layed him to rest with mint for clairvoyance, sage for peace and lavender to relax him. I gave him a Datura flower atop the herbs to remind him that he will always be beautiful. I thanked him for his gifts to me and wished him well on his journey.
We covered him, and John finished the burial, returning dirt atop the hole, while I walked off very tearfully.
7 Feathers...
Not many people would pick up roadkill for thier signifigant others.
That's love
Once, before we moved here, John was jumped and beaten by a gang of guys... it was a failed attmept to rob him. He came home bloodied and sore, and missing his favorite hat. It was an old beat up winter hat, navy blue, he had for a LONG time. A day or so later I tracked the road through the snow and found his hat in the street, slushy, flat and run over. I brought the hat home and washed it, thus making it quite fancy again.
John was grateful.
Yesterday John retrieved something for me. Not something I had lost, but something I needed to set free.
(rest of story under cut for those with weak stomachs)
On the way to take the girls to summer camp yesterday I came across what I believed was a crow in the middle of the road. I couldn't see very well so on the way back to go to work I slowed down to look, and as I passed the wind blew one if it's wings up as if it were waving me down... it was definitely a crow.
My heart sank at the sight of this. Most likely it was a young crow who hadn't learned the skills of the road just yet, as crows here rarely fall victim to the perils of the road.
I called and left John a message at lunch mentioning what I'd seen and almost saying that I wished I could have brought him home to allow him a proper burial. I would never ask John to go onto a dangerous road and pick up roadkill (crow-dkill) in order that I could satisfy my bizarre urge to bury my bird brother.
He brought the bird to me.
It was in a box, under the back porch when I got home.
It smelled pretty bad after a day in the sun, and very little was salvagable from this beautiful animal.
I put on heavy rubber gloves and John and I proceeded to take both feet and the one good wing he had waved me down with. I tried to salvage other feathers from him, but being so badly maimed and damaged, I could only save 7.
I named him Seven Feathers because of this.
I am in the process of preserving the parts that I kept, in a very Native American-type fashion.
As for the rest of him, We dug him a burial plot, and layed him to rest with mint for clairvoyance, sage for peace and lavender to relax him. I gave him a Datura flower atop the herbs to remind him that he will always be beautiful. I thanked him for his gifts to me and wished him well on his journey.
We covered him, and John finished the burial, returning dirt atop the hole, while I walked off very tearfully.
7 Feathers...
Not many people would pick up roadkill for thier signifigant others.
That's love