As I sit in front of my favorite window, the one that frames the mid-section of a colossal black acacia, a feather falls from the sky. A few inches from the window, it wafts and twists, floats and turns in a counterpoint of lift and drag, slowly, lazily, magically, like the feather in the opening scene of “Forrest Gump,” making its way downward.
In a second I decide I have to watch it the entire way and jumping up from the loveseat and stepping on the low shelf, I lean on tiptoe over the windowsill to follow its descent. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bird flies in, intercepts this feather in mid-flight, and flies off. With the feather in its bill, it flies off. And I am left standing there with my mouth wide open. What else is going on when I am not looking? What else?