I walk every morning. As I bow, everyone applaud. Thank you very much. (I hurt my shoulder patting myself on the back.)
Since I take the same route each day, I look around to keep myself occupied because exercise just doesn’t thrill me and make me all gooey like it does other people. I do it for my health. I do it for my sanity. I do it to keep the oxygen flowing to the little gray cells.
I noticed lately that there are an abundance of gray pigeon feathers on the ground. They are on both sides of the street, on the sidewalks, in the grass and stuck in bushes. This is not normal.
I picked one up to examine it more closely and heard my mother’s voice tell me not to play with the dirty, disease ridden thing. Being the brat that I have always been, I stroked it from point to tip then wiped my face. I have not died, mom.
The feather reminded me of a morning winter sky, bluish gray but soft and tranquil, promising a downy drift of snow. The shaft supported barbs that fit together so perfectly that the vanes felt like cashmere. I held the small wonder in my left hand as I thought about the possible meanings of this plethora of pinions.
Then Cody interrupted my reverie by taking a dump. Being the good neighbor that I am, I scooped the poop into a plastic grocery bag (I reuse and recycle, more applause, please.) After concentrating on not getting any stuff on me, I realized I totally mangled the plume. I threw it to the ground in disgust.
Feathers mean flight, freedom and fancy, maybe not to the birds that lost them, but to me that’s what they mean. In American Indian lore and dream interpretation, feathers mean prosperity and success. An era of lightheartedness, ease and comfort fast approaches.