The happy place

There was a bone chilling cold sink is teeth in me even though it’s not that cold, there was white big moon yesterday, a full moon of triple the usual size, but still just as cold.

I’ve got a turkey, the angel maker, she who nibbles at her sister’s feathers, she who’s got the most beautiful coat of feathers: cream white with a shine of oilcloth and a glitter like ice cold snow, or cheap vanilla ice cream. Her feet were covered in shit and therefore for all her beauty, she stank pungently yesterday.

But I could sense that smell. They are returning to me it seems, the smells. Even the repelling ones are welcome and they do make me happy. Even the stink of shit.

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