It’s another flawless fall day: skies unmarred by even the faintest trace of cloud, wind at last stilled to let the sun warm the chilled earth. The recent snow and subfreezing temperatures did not do as much damage as we expected to the autumn colors. It’s true that the cottonwoods that had already turned are less amber than a dull brown now, and the woodbine vines have withered entirely. But still the aspens have only just begun to turn at their tops, and there will be more golden fire to come.
Meanwhile, the wild creatures have internalized this sudden change and are visibly readying themselves for the winter to come. I wrote yesterday of Young Bear, who availed him- or herself of our entire crop of pairs two or three weeks ago, and who left traces of their presence in our drive earlier this week. We do not get buffalo here on our land — the tribe’s herd stays within specific grazing lands — and the deer don’t come this close to human habitation. The elk do, but it’s too early for them yet; they’ll descend, finding nighttime sanctuary here, once the winter snows have begun to limit their food supply at higher elevations.
The raptors, though . . . they are here, and they are hunting now.
The red-tails who share this space with us tend to join us once or twice or day. They recognize us as something more than neighbors, perhaps even as relatives; they know both instinctively and through what is now years of lived experience that we are safe for their kind, and they return the favor. We have raised several generations of chickens in the years since this pair, and sometimes trio, first appeared, and we have an understanding: The chickens, like the dogs when puppies, are family, and are not to be touched. They will hunt anything and everything else, from rodents to doves to the occasional magpie or crow, but they spare not so much as a glance for the chickens, even when circling directly overhead. They also respond to the sound of our voices: Upon hearing us, especially if we are laughing, the female particularly will detour off course and race to circle overhead, tipping her wings toward us, as though wanting to participate in celebrating every bit of joy that touches this place we share.
It is perhaps odd to the outside world to think of undomesticated creatures as friends, much less as relatives, but here, they are family.
Once in a while, they will leave a more tangible trace of their presence, a wing or tail feather released during preening, or a downy plume molted off or otherwise surrendered to the air. Yesterday, as I headed out to the studio, the dogs crossed my path, tumbling over each other, Stormy in pursuit of coppery plume adrift on the autumn winds. She became distracted by her brother before she caught it, and it fell to the ground beneath the flurry of puppy legs and ears and tails, but it caught my eye all the same. Normally, plume feathers around here will belong to the chickens, and they have been in varying degrees of molt over recent weeks. Now, though, the ruddy gold Americaunas and our remaining Red are done with that process, new plumage fully in for the long winter ahead, leaving only the silver and the three black ‘lorps still looking scraggly.
More to the point, though, this was not a chicken feather. The shape was wrong, as was the arc of the flexible shaft; the color was wrong, too. This was a plume at once short and wide, the color was that of the darker plumes of the red-tailed hawk. They are active now, along with their smaller raptor counterparts, and soon the eagles will arrive to hunt, too.
And once in a great while, they drop a small gift, a work of prayer and ceremony, one to direct the smoke and point the way to medicine.
It is normally the larger wing and tail feathers that are used for prayer, for smudging, for honor gifts and ceremonial events. But the plumes have their place, too, and their smaller size is not an indicator of diminished power. Today’s featured work, in fact, embodies the power of these smaller silky strands, showing their beauty, when aggregated together, to uniquely good effect. From its description in the relevant section of the Bracelets Gallery here on the site:
Prayer Plumes Cuff Bracelet
Prayer plumes turn everyday objects into offerings and works of ceremony. With this cuff, Wings turns a wide strand of silver into a bundle of these tiny silken down feathers, signs of honor and tools of medicine. It’s a cuff in the most archetypal sense, wide, simple, spare, substantial: a single sheet of sterling silver cut to size and milled by hand in a flowing, drifting pattern of plumes. Each end is cut freehand on either side into a gentle taper, adding to the graceful lines and ensuring a comfortable fit. Cuff is 6″ long by 1.5″ across at the widest point (dimensions approximate). Other views shown below.
Sterling silver
$545 + shipping, handling, and insurance
The colonial world misunderstands many things — well, frankly, everything — about our peoples’ ways. Hollywood and so-called “literature,” “journalism” and “science” have combined, for more than a century now to extract from our peoples’ existences, our histories and identities and cultures and traditions, our languages and names and songs and prayers, in ways that they have determined will give them authority and control over those narratives, and over us.
Because, of course, that is what colonialism is.
But it’s not real. it gets everything wrong, distorts, warps it beyond recognition so that the only people who “relate” to it are the colonizers themselves. Indigenous people know it’s nothing of us. Any non-Native person presuming to “practice” Indigenous “medicine” is in fact only pretending. It’s a lie, and a dangerous one, one that does real and tangible harm, no matter how much they try to convince themselves and everyone else otherwise.
The same is true of our knowledges and identities.
Most people don’t realize that “Wings” is not the whole of Wings’s traditional name. No, his real name, in its entirety, derives in part from these very feathers, these delicate but incredibly strong and silky plumes. It was a name that Spirit showed to his grandfather at the time of Wings’s birth, by way of a passing ancestor of the relative who shares this land with us today.
And she is abroad, in flight again now. I glanced out the window, and there she was, soaring in great looping circles over the back side of Pueblo Peak, allowing the late-morning sun to light up her own wings and feathers, turning them from fiery red to snowy white. She is riding the currents now for the fun of it, no thought of the hunt, merely enjoying the paths and patterns of the skies as she races upon the October winds.
And these, too, are the patterns and paths of medicine.
She knows, and so do we.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2021; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
