with me.

mister jones knows me well. i thought we had said our goodbyes, i thought that i had sent him on his way for his halibut fishing trip, but after i had settled myself back at the painting table, the front doorbell rang. there he is, standing at the door, holding a decomposing bird, his hand at my eye level. i knew you would want some feathers he said. i didnt want to throw it away without giving you opportunity to gather feathers, he explained. i don’t know what kind of bird this is, with all-black feathers, all black except for the tips of the ones just above the tail a colour i had not seen before in our local birds. a colour much like one in my watercolour palette. quinacridone gold. we said our final goodbye and i stood there on the deck pulling some feathers. my gosh the deteriorating bird stunk to high heaven, but my gosh i had to have those feathers. i was thinking as i prayed my thank you over the gone life in front of me, this is something umber dove would do. 

 

10 thoughts on “with me.

  1. Such a beautiful little tribute not only to the holy bird that gave its feathers to you but to the heart and soul of the incredibly talented umber dove.
    And your mister Jones….he is a good man.
    It’s all good, isn’t it?
    xx

  2. Such a beautiful and soulful prayer for not only the incredibly brave umber dove but also for the bird that gave its feathers as part of that prayer.
    And your mister Jones….he is a good man.
    Holding all of you in my heart.
    xx

  3. yeah, julie. mister jones is a good man. he knows me well. i just don’t know myself as well, some days.

    umber dove would approve. especially of the stinky fuckin’ feathers on my painting table.
    xx

  4. If I know Umber Dove, I’m postitive she’s plucked feathers a time or two!
    I cannot say enough about mister pencilfox, neither.
    OH. MAN.
    xO

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