Quill and Quire

Think about it this way, you tell someone who sees what you see: you have been given four feathers. Two are small, sidling softly under, and two are peacock plumes with turquoise jewels for eyes. What do you keep, and what do you leave behind? Which will you dip into ink and touch to paper, wrestle with history, or with the sky? Perhaps it is not my place to ask, or to pry. You may have forgotten all the signs I gave you.