This one was lounging about on a spongy bed of moss and redwood needles under a giant fern. All her ribs, vertebrae, and femurs were fanned out around her. It was Sunday, North of San Francisco on a winding side road off the 101. Sunlight was making its way down to the forest floor, lighting the leaves as it passed, gathering into spots of glowing chartreuse. Dust motes floated up, as if it were a kelp forest, not a redwood one. The road was black and smooth; the motorcycle fast. We’ve been together ever since.
Someone gave me the magpie feather. They wound it in my hair and it stayed there all day, even though we were hiking in the desert. I can’t remember what day, or whose fingers, though.