Full feathered headdress.

Just spent two days supporting Mothermouse in her Native American Indian medicine stuff and on my return home, perched in the middle of my bed, is a bird. I engage it in pleasant conversation as one does with a nervous guest but it decides to hide on a shelf behind my pants and socks drawers. Strange because the windows were closed and it shows no apparent cat damage. Anyway after a chilly ten minutes with widow wide open this female blackbird flies away to nest another day. Maybe it was a sign but I don’t know what of. So Indian medicine stuff. Well it’s nice spending time with a lovely bunch of people but I just run away from all the rules and accoutrements. When I was a lad it was bareback riding, buckskin mini skirt and war paint with trusty stallion and six-gun. My gun was silver with a white ivory handle, the rest was imaginary. Even the language was minimal, “How. Me want pow wow.” There’s something unutterably noble about a people who don’t use adjectives. Years later every leap and wheelie of my moto-crosser was riding that imaginary stallion, every camping trip was on the waste ground prairies of Higher Lumox, Greater Manchester. I connected with their spirit as only a ten year old can: I was never the haughty gunslinger. So the rules and accoutrements came as a shock. I guess I’m still ten when it comes to the spirit of the Indians, wild, minimal, generous and protective, and no adjectives. But I’d have given my right arm for a full feathered headdress. So now I help but don't inhale. Clearing sheep poo from the field is my level of ceremony, enough to be renamed 'Stiffmouse the Poo', which in my book puts me in very esteemed company.