One of my favorite blogs, searchingtosee, recently posted a beautiful piece of writing paired with with stunning photographs. Sit down with a cup of coffee and enjoy!



He arrived home with two dead pheasants on his back, and thought it would be funny to dangle them in front of my face as I answered the door.
I screamed.
The boy was amused. The girl less so.

He hung them in the garden shed in the dense, bleak night, and after the snow had begun to fall, and a snowmen had been made [two hazelnuts for eyes; a jaunty snow hat, and an elephant for a companion], he began the long, diligent labour of preparing the birds with his strong, adept hands. The snow had created a perfectly crisp white work surface for the task. He plucked the feathers (taking care to put aside the two longest, most elegant), then they were gutted and washed, cleaned, and finally, pink, bald and dimpled, were ready for the pot.

The girl looked on in growing disgust.
“I’m not eating that!”…

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12 thoughts on “

  1. I collect feathers and have quite a few from the accidental pheasant we had for supper a few years ago. No hunting allowed. My back field is home to a dozen or so of them and I feed them corn through the cold winter days.


  2. I’ve always liked feathers, collecting them from the yard, the beach, the woods. Her photos of snow on the feathers were particularly beautiful, capturing the delicate flakes on similarly delicate fluff. 🙂

    Her story first reminded me of the scene in Shogun by James Clavell when Blackthorne caught a pheasant and hung it up to cure, forbidding his house staff from touching it. I’ve never had the opportunity of actually seeing anyone prepare a bird like that, although I did include a similar scene in one of my stories. She managed to describe it in a much more poetic way. 🙂


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