Feathers lay clustered on the ground, splattered with the shiny red hint of slaughter.
I had seen them as we were collecting sticks to add to the forming tee pee. Transfixed, as I stood above them, and overcome with exquisite clarity. Death and art. Life and creation.
The kids play danced across the paddock in answer to my calling, keen to see the discovery. Soon incorporating them into their adventure, tracking the deposits of feathers around the landscape, collecting them as clues for some kind of spy game. Later, presenting them to me in bundled posies with bouncing freedom and delighted smiles. Beautiful hearts.
Without speaking we wove them into the interior of the teepee, tucking them into the binding, wire and string, where they will eventually burn. So dense now, with layers of sticks, and traces of magic. In the exposed paddock it has become pivotal in this elevated site, settling, as a place of sanctuary, daydreaming and creativity.
But, there will be flames soon. Sparks and smoke in a night sky. Ash and charcoal, as remnants. An art-formation, in its burning. A gathering, honouring transition. Of what was once, but then gone.
Death and art. Life and creation.