Feathers

Long did I follow the trail of feathers, asking myself who it was that stole off with the expired grouse? I followed the trail through the wind and saw clouds that would creep darkly over the lake, until the crow passed over me with a loud warning.
Here, a bit of down caught on a stick, here long checkered quills amid the leaves, and there bright brown or delicate tints of grey and blue feathers, undersides of silver, all the rainbow of a grouse, all the glory. So many feathers. Who had coughed them up, chewed off their ends?

The storm crow knew; I had seen him flying low the evening the grouse died.
The fox knew; he spread his turds on the straw broom and they hadn't been there at the time when I found the dead grouse.
I never saw the buzzards that evening; I wondered if they too knew.

When the grouse perished, I heard the smack of it; the noise startled me in my seat. I looked out the window but saw nothing. Some time later my eyes slid through the window-door and through the next room and past the screen-door to the outside, and there the creature lay on the porch, enormous, wind-ruffled. I have seen many birds hit a variety of windows over the years, but never such a large bird. I wouldn't have thought a grouse could fly fast enough to kill itself against the glass.
Its beak was crossed crookedly, a scaly foot splayed, eyes closed. Dead as a doornail, but still warm. I could imagine a heart beating there, not so long ago. What to do? I didn't want it to decay there, or be ripped apart where I could see it happen. I thought: such beautiful feathers, I should pluck them. But it would have felt mean. Instead I lobbed the bird, feathers and all, over the side of the porch, where I almost expected it to defy the laws of nature and fly off in a huff. Thud. It fell laughably heavy, like a stone, and almost blended in with the dried leaves.
Not ten minutes later I saw a raven fly near, then disappear again, as if it was merely curious, or else off to tell some friends. I kept my eye out the window as evening fell, but went to check again and was astonished to find the bird quite vanished.

Too proud of my tracking skills to give up the hunt, I returned to the scene and found still more scattered feathers closer to the pines, as if the bird had been given a shake. Then, nothing. I went in wide circles, astonished that the multitude of feathers should suddenly cling so solidly. I checked the woodpile: if a fox was the culprit she may have stashed away what she couldn't eat. Foxes have tiny stomachs.

Not a trace of down anywhere. I thought my eyes must be going on me, I pictured myself creeping on my belly with a magnifying glass. I returned to that furthest circle of feathers nearest the two pines and this time thought: look up.

All my instincts had been telling me this was the work of a fox, for they are sneaky and swift, and wouldn't tear into the creature immediately but drag it off bloodlessly. How, I thought, could anything feathered carry the grouse off bodily, it being so large? And wouldn't I have seen it happen through the window?

But I looked up, and there I saw a feathered staircase winding up the branches, a little fluff here, a little fluff on the next branch, and so on, as far as I could see. The raven grabbed the grouse, hopped and fluttered to the tree, and then climbed the ladder-branches with its weighty prize. It was a strange and terrible and a little bit beautiful sight, that evidence.

At least, I thought, the meat wasn't wasted. And ravens like pretty things so I have the oddest fancy that he'll return for the beautiful feathers and fashion them into a headdress and a cloak, and use the down to line a nest for some pretty babies. They are uncanny creatures and I suspect they might be slightly supernatural.