wild goose chase
falling star
This is how I believe it happens:
She has a feather…several feathers, from half a dozen different species, gathered while tending to her daily chores, picked up and studied while her friends-children-loved ones wait patiently, because they’ve seen her do this before and know it’s no good trying to rush her…several feathers and they sit on her work surface, maybe stuck in a jar. And she has a stone…several stones…gathered in much the same way, and bits of bright paper and a handful of shells (round and brown as the ears of mice) and a few intriguing twigs and some ribbon from an old gift. All these things, scattered carefully across her work surface (no table, no desk, but a work surface) waiting until the moment comes when she needs just that shape, or just that color, or just that smallest subtle hint of weight.
And when she has the right feather she calls out “Rice, fetch me rice, if you please.” “Wild, white or brown, and how much?” “Oh, white; one hundred grains, and thank you,” even though she’s pretty sure she’ll only need about ninety-five.
I believe she is in tune with invisible lines of gravity. I believe birds deliberately leave her their feathers. I believe brooks roll stones right to where she can find them and friends and family give her gifts knowing she’ll be more thankful for the ribbon it’s wrapped in.
I believe the world cooperates with her, and is glad to do so.
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