Here are feathers the color of smoke, of flame. Here are feathers the color of light on still water, feathers the color of milk. Here are feathers green as ferns, blue as forget-me-nots, red as thorns. Here are feathers brave and blue as a noonday shadow. Feathers as black as the darkness behind eyes that have not yet opened. Feathers crawling with ember-glow, starred with frost. Striped and spotted, spangled, sparkling, glittering, glowing, burning and tattering like leaves in a fire, feathers shining like the sun.
I have twine here made from the sinews of comets, the wool of the shearling moon, from down drawn off the belly of the sky itself.
I have glue rendered from the roots of mountains and the hides of old wives’ tales, and a brush made from the tail of a leap year.