Thursday, September 6, 2007
It was hot in the garden. We walked up the lane to the hill panting like tigers deep in the hot jungle. On top of the hill it was cool in the cloud. Colours in distance were muted by the veil of water, close up they were bright.
We found the place where the ginger birds grow, but She picked the feathers and took them home to make wings, for us.
Bright feathers, deep orange, they smelled of fresh bird.