I found a beautiful, rust-colored plume with black and white stripes in the regional park. I reached down to pick it up, but hesitated. Birds are notoriously filthy animals. Regal and resplendent creatures, sure, but also infested with fleas and mites. Still, the feather was perfect, and so after examining it closely for icky things, I stuck it in my hatband, and said, “And called it macaroni!”
I passed a happy family on Sandhill trail. The father, his face as pink as a rabbits belly from the sun, complimented me on my feather, as his children ran ahead, squealing with laughter.
“Thank you, friend,” I said. “I found it just down the trail.”
A fluffy white dog that looked like a miniature lamb, ran off-leash alongside the frolicking children. I cautioned the family to keep an eye on the little lamb and children. “Hungry coyotes up here. They’ll snatch that doggie up!” I touched the feather in my cap to make sure it was still there.
They thanked me, but didn’t put a leash on their little l…
