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Fletch for arrows, down that fills our coats,
exquisite shades of pigments never made:
all are found on birds, their wings and throats.
Ticklers, fans, and peacocks on parade.

Humans try but cannot craft their match.
each one lures or hides, repelled or sucked
rain in buckets. Birds of youth we catch:
Sweet and soulful songsters, dead and plucked.

Even gods and angels wear such wings
versus those that devils flap like bats.
On its voyage Titanic hauled these things –
lost at sea – to crown outlandish hats.

Vibrant plumage Ascot ladies wore
evolved from what adorned the dinosaur.