Cultivating a native life,
we pause for totems,
let them tell us
what they think—
who they are.
Some count on us
to stir the grass
and follow,
and some to listen
when we drink
coffee or wine
outside.
Claiming the roost
of loving crow mates,
a Golden Eagle lights
for a closer look at us—
and we are blessed.
Finding his feather
left ahead,
we believe
in something
more common
of the wild,
of talismans
from moments
we never forget
and hope to leave
as much.
drycrikjournal 
Some days have breadcrumbs of synchronicity. I’m thankful for those days, as it makes me believe I’m on my true path. Your poem is a breadcrumb for me today. Thank you John.
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You’re welcome, MK. I don’t think we ever know these things for sure, feathers and breadcrumbs, but it’s certainly a more intriguing path than those most trod. I can’t help but think of all the bird and animal myths that have survived from our local natives.
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What a wonderful thank you for bathwater provided.
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