In America many feathers are illegal for one to possess. Eagle, swan, hawk, and owl. One not dare bring them into their possession. Even a collection in a pocket is a crime. So I do not bring them home. The one's I find scattered about on the banks of the sloughs. Rather, for just one moment, I pick them up in admiration. Feel the soul of the bird they once helped sour in the sky. Isn't it magical? To know you are holding an item that once created an absence of gravity. Oh how dearly I admire the beat that comes from a fallen feather of a wild one. I want to dance with them held high in the air. The magestic fluttering ways of a lighthearted object, putting a flying feeling in my soul in only the way a bird feather can.
