And so it goes.

"And so it goes." That's what Kurt Vonnegut wrote every time someone died in his book filled with deaths, Slaughterhouse Five.

Among the leftovers of a maple tree's flowers, and a few needles dropt from a yew, there was this bouquet of junco feathers on the sidewalk in front of our house this evening. Something killed it. Perhaps the same thing pulled it apart, and carried the meatier portion somewhere else, maybe to share with its young. I dunno. But it's all a circle. And that's how it goes.