i n d e x d r a w i n g
s c u l p t
u r e i
n s t a l l
a t i o n
c o n t a c t l i n k s
e l i z a b e t h p o r t e r
in joe's library
Walking back along the river, the sun has not yet risen, though there is enough light to see the trail of white feathers.
These lead from the river’s edge, across the spring green grass to
where the dead swan has been left, laid out by it’s killer.
Returning there again in the late morning, the sun now glitters cold across the water, only the feathers remain.
Writing to Joe about this later I imagine the storming white feathers, scattered amongst his flying books.
Another letter never sent.
swan feathers, painted MDF, copper wire