bag o’ bones

It’s not a morbid thing, the bones. I mean, it is to an extent. They are bones after all. It’s going to be about death at some point when you live with them.

But it’s not a dark fascination with death or an attempt to be macabre. Animals are very dear to me. And a wounded or dying, receives my utmost grief.

It is not the death; it is the remembrance of a life that I love about them. These antlers… it’s the shape, texture, color. The smoky ivory and pale greys and browns organically painted, each so different. They are so solid and strong, yet light. I remember first learning about bones in school, and thinking, “what amazing design.” An engineering feat, really. And so fascinating, how they turn chalky and pale from exposure, or buffed and smooth if plucked from the forest before lying too long. They’re tools for eating, tools for fighting. And I love how, much like humans and our musclebound men or voluptuous women, the attractiveness is visually displayed in the ability to endure years, attract, provide, protect. A buck with many points, or a man with muscles and money. We are following the path, and we too will end up a pile of lovely bones.