One on the sidewalk as I’m walking my dog. One at the grocery store, right next to my car, driver’s side. One standing upright in the grass at the park near my house. Even one in the garage (not a high, bird-traffic area), near the washing machine. Lately it seems I’ve been finding feathers everywhere – nearly a dozen now, but I won’t bore you with all the locations. And not old, matted, musty feathers. Perfect ones – blue, brown, white and grey – that look as if their previous owners might have left them as a calling card.
Some people find pennies. I’m finding feathers.
My city has a free monthly paper that I call the “pretty people paper.” It’s a slick, four-color, multi-sectioned tabloid with gorgeous ads from trendy retailers that I seldom recognize, much less frequent.
The “pretty people” are photographed in bunches and posing alone at charity events, boutique openings, art and fashion shows and private gatherings. They’re well-dressed, trim, tanned, and sometimes a little too obviously botoxed. I can’t imagine any of them in Levi’s or sweats. (And certainly not sweating.)
Sometimes I see someone I know in the pretty people paper. But they’re mostly strangers. I like to look anyway. It’s like a field trip to place in your city you’ve heard about, but never visited.