Abstraction of a Killing

Walking through the city centre in a perfectly blissful state earlier this morning. I had a splendid evening previously with the most gorgeous women. I was in town to do some banking but had half an hour to wait. So I floated through the streets and back alleys. That and only that. Taking in the waking city.
I happened upon this feather kerfuffle and found it oddly pleasing. Maybe it was my blissed-out mood, because it was clearly the aftermath of a fox in the night. How could a killing appeal to my sensibilities?
My sense of wonder was something to do with the fan of feathers at the centre, and the scatter of smaller feathers around. It was a product of violence, but - framed and abstracted in this way - became as touching to the soul (or not according to taste) as a Jackson Pollock or a Joan Miró.
Thought then followed thought about the great abstraction of Art. Music, images or paintings that strike a deep response within us. What is this? What is this deep pool of collective recognition of the sublime pulling beneath the surface of the senses? Surely it's just strings vibrating at a certain frequency and interval, or paint of different colours in particular combinations and distance.? Yet we are moved. There is a pang of something happening, deeper and inwards. Our souls get a dooking. Then up we pop a little lighter, having experienced these wee fractures in the infinite that is Art.
And Art is what makes us human. As an animal a fox can catch and kill a pigeon, but it takes a human to turn the aftermath into some deeper significance of life and living. Something that's not solely about survival, but about the awesome flicker of existence where an abstracted thought meets the pavement on a Saturday morning and sees beauty beyond the killing.

Onwards.