Pile of feathers

Something killed a bird out behind the shed. This morning while out with the dogs I noticed a pile of white feathers in the brush. The lap dog could care less the part rat terrier was going crazy. I have always had a wild imagination. As a kid I used to let my mind wander and try to imagine all sorts of scenerios like "I wonder what it looked like when the Indians walked through this land.". And then I would drift into imagining I was an Indian squaw out picking berries. It has never taken much for my mind to spiral down the rabbit hole. Alice was muse to me for a long time. As was the fox that lived somewhere close and made himself known and shown to me often. Maybe the fox has returned and that was who killed the bird. Maybe there is a den of newborns sommewhere close. I might catch a glimpse of them come April like I often have. Those red fuzzy tumbly creatures. I have heard the owls and the coyotes it might have been them. Regardless I am always struck by the hints of the unseen nighttime world that happens right outside my door. I once wrote a poem about the connection and disconnection of man from nature. Well actually I think most every poem I've ever written is about that that and of course love. This is going nowhere. But writing is good for me I think. I need to write more. When I was intensely studying poetry I read and wrote every day for hours and hours. Since the two new businesses I spend less time almost no time really doing those two things. I understand there are phases in our lives but I really want to find my way back to more time for art. The dogs are sleeping again. I will wake them and get them out to the woods for a long interlude with nature. I will go see a movie without words in the middle of the day. I will not listen to talk or sports radio. I will read poems