And more November…

what it must have looked like before today

My friend Margaret emailed me, telling me she’d found a dead great horned owl in her field, and she’d left it beside her driveway, in the grass. She asked if I’d like to have it, so I could use the feathers for my Cedar Spirits.

I biked down to her house today with a pair of garden gloves and one of those green reusable shopping bags in my bike basket. The owl was there in the grass, still pretty fresh, a heap of unbearably luscious feathers. It was smaller and lighter than I expected, but I guess I’m more used to handling cats than birds.

I rode home past the school, and the kids were just getting herded in after lunch break. I asked the teacher if she’d like me to show them the owl, and she thought that was a good idea. So she spread white butcher paper on a tabletop, and we spread out the owl, admiring its wingspan and fierce talons. The teacher opened its mouth for the kids to see, and they touched its wild beak and looked at its tongue. It inspired a kind of awe, to see such a creature up close like that, still magnificent.

One or two of the kids asked if they could have a feather, and I told them they could all choose a feather. Then, of course, I had all 8 or 9 kids each gripping one particular feather which would be theirs, while the teacher (a resourceful soul) produced a pair of pliers. Then she recalled that one of the boys had a Leatherman tool in his pocket (with a knifeblade; would that even be allowed in a mainland school? Probably not.) and that had the perfect small pliers.

The big feathers were tough to pull out. I had to strain and yank. I let the seventh-grader take the pliers and pull out the feather he’d picked. The other kids waited semi-patiently, keeping a tight grip on their chosen feathers. When all were distributed, I packed the owl back up in my bag and the teacher was making sure that all the hands were washed and feathers stored in cubbies to take home.

When I got home, it was starting to be stormy, but I couldn’t postpone plucking the owl. So I hunkered down in a corner of the porch by the woodpile, with my own pliers and the radio for company, and started yanking. It took a long while, but now I have enough feathers for all sorts of purposes. I’m sorry that the owl died, (we have no idea of the cause of death) but at least there’s the small comfort that he or she hasn’t died unnoticed. I put the semi-plucked remains out in the clearing for the ravens. I hope it doesn’t upset our local owls in this part of the island, to see it there.

November. Rainy, grey, wheeling down through darkness to the solstice.