As told to me by a feather

I wrote the following story during the Monday evening StoryCircle. Susan passed around a basket of objects she found outdoors and each of us selected one. I chose this feather, not knowing from whom it came. As I held it, stroked it, smelled it, ran it across my fingers, it shared with me a story that is part bird and part me. Enjoy...

The story I hold in my hands is delicate, fragile, dark and enduring. The story I hold in my hands beckons memories of life, transition and loss. It is a story told by birds, given flight on fickle winds, rising and falling, swooping and landing, gliding into the mirror surface of a lake that reflects everything and holds onto nothing.

Once upon a time there was a shy merganser that watched the other ducks in her flock from a bit of a distance. She looked away during the fluttering displays that her brothers so proudly erupted into whenever a female approached. She turned her tail when the others copulated and paddled quickly away if one came after her. This is not our nature said her grandmother. We are destined to breed and lay the speckled eggs, protect them with our warm bellies and then teach the ducklings how to swim and dive. I know, she replied demurely, its just that I can’t. I am not called. And then she glided away wondering why her mirror on the water’s surface was always distorted by ripples. The young merganser never left her flock. She stayed nearby, watching, observing, taking notes that she stored in the minute folds inside her round head. With one red eye scanning for osprey and the other looking beneath the surface, she hunted. With a great surge, she lifted her body almost completely out of the water and then dove like an arrow toward the shiny glint of silver that slipped beneath her. Within the body of the lake, she could fly almost as easily as when she took to the air. Webbed feet propelled her in steady strokes as she pursued the minnow into the shadow of an ancient tree trunk. Her sharp pointed bill moved as if on its own toward this morsel that would be lunch should she be lucky and skillful enough to catch it. With only a second to spare, she grasped the wriggling fish. She turned and propelled herself toward the light, bursting out of the surface of the water in a motion so graceful that there was hardly a splash. Lifting her beak to the heavens, she gave thanks for her success and in one smooth, practiced motion tossed the minnow up, caught it and swallowed. She glanced around to see if any of the others were watching, concerned that they might be jealous of her meal. They were ignoring her as usual however, diving and bobbing as if she were not really there. The act of stalking, she mused, is both mindful and cruel. In order to live, I consume another living being. As I do so, I am aware that muskrat, snake, osprey and eagle consider me as fair game too. There must be more to life than just eating and raising chicks. I want to eat, but I do not want to be the mother of my own flock or the nanny of another’s. Is there something wrong with me? The merganser girl was soon distracted by the urge to preen. With her pointy bill she groomed each feather, cleaning the grains of sand out and smoothing the edges. Her feathers were practically dry even after a long dive, so tightly knit were they and slick with oil from her skin. As she preened, a feather on her chest came loose. She pulled it all the way out, noticed the down clinging to its shaft. Saying goodbye to one of the last of her baby feathers, she dropped it into the lake. It floated away only to be picked up from the shore later by she who has no feathers of her own.

Comments

[Janet Tokerud]

Wow! I really liked this story.

[marie.sophie Dumon]

I don't figure on your writing...... sad, so sad!
Write something about your WILDE experience being in Paris, the best city in the world, the City of Love....
about the TGV the fastest train in the wolrd that din't work because of strikes..... so many wild events in France!!!!

Anyway be my friend
love
marie-sophie