feast nom my mom is cooking a feast 060101 ... ovenbird On this rare day without rain I walk my dog as far as we can go without stepping into the ocean. The land here is flooded with the sky’s winter weeping and ducks paddle on the pond that only exists in the darkest, wettest months. Amongst the frail remnants of last year’s lupines I follow a trail of white feathers and find a feast unfolding as crows eat the flesh of a gull’s fresh corpse. The feathers are arranged artfully, as if by size: one pile of flight feathers, another of black tipped contours, another of down that looks like snow, and in the center of its own stripped exterior, the exposed red meat of the gull’s strong breast. The crows are swift shadows reducing everything to bone. How sleek and beautiful they are, their beaks full of warm muscle, their gratitude shining, slick with blood. 260109 what's it to you? who go blather from