THE LAST FEATHER
Rex Burress
The one feather rested on the ground under my bird bath like a screaming indication of what had happened.
Then I saw one tiny down-wisp of a feather floating on the water, and in my mind's eye I could see the bird-killing, next-door yellow cat sailing through the air, fanged mouth open, a fierce gleam emanating from the transformed eyes, and the sharp claws easily ending the life of one of my favorite bird-friends—the soft, gray, ring-necked dove!
A pair of the doves had been making a daily trip to the bird bath to drink and flutter in the water. One of the beauties would sit on the clothes line, watching, while the other bathed. If all was clear, they would peck for weed seeds on the brown lawn before taking off in a thunderous flutter even though the lift-off was cumbersomely slow, like a space rocket. To be sure, the cat took that all in from across the fence.
Chances are, you've never seen your loveable family cat, so purring and cuddly, take on a fierceness with a wild glare in its eyes—a fire of the jungle brought out of hiding by a kill-opportunity. Every muscle is tensed for a slow stalk, the intense focus—and then the leap—full of power and viscous agility! I have seen that scenario several times, and there is usually contact, and then its over. I can visualize that yellow cat with the dove in its mouth sneaking away to the brush.
The cat is smart and knows my backyard refuge is off limits. It sits on the step next door overlooking its sterile yard with no weed patches in it, seemingly staring at me, longing to be over in that cool brush catching a bird. “But the man shoots with a water hose at me, and I don't want to get sprayed on,” the cat might say. “So I'll wait till he's not there.”
The cat's lady-owner died, and her husband now goes on week-long journeys leaving the two cats uncared for, and that's bothersome. If you've got a pet, you're bound to care for it, Like on a farm, you provide and care for each animal all of the time.
The next day, I saw one lone dove return, landing on the bird bath, fearful-looking eyes open wide as if searching for her mate. She didn't take a drink and quickly flew away. I suspect she saw the cat attack and fled, probably not seeing the bloody end, but you can only speculate.
Then I found the second wing feather. What had been attached to the bird, providing the wondrous ability to lift into the limitless sky and fly anywhere the heart desired, had been torn asunder like leaves ripped from a branch in the wind. That feather was ethereally designed with a main shaft branched with barbules that have hooks called barbicels that keep it intact, the tips producing a powder-down that keeps the feathers waterproofed. Imagine, the naturalized ring-necked dove has about seven thousand various feathers, about the same as a native mourning dove, while a swan may have 25,000!
A feather from a dove symbolizes love, gentleness, and kindness. The precious dove a quill did lend from her high-soaring wing. A bird is like a bridge over troubled water.
“Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away and be at rest.” -Psalms 4:6
“When, if ever, will come the perfect day?/ To soar over the heights in the light of day?/ Filled with strength...feeling no ills,/ Seeing, seeing, to the most distant hills./ Drifting, gliding, oh, happy day in the sky!/ When light-hearted spirits again lift high.” --Rex Burress