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YOU CAN SENSE the spirit of a golden eagle feather by the way it moves. This one, rusted and scorched looking, has some delicate snowy down clipped clean away. But, it is all I have to offer the great-grandson of Sitting Bull. A mark of my deepest respect. Lodged between the pages of a book on my return from the Isle of Skye, the plume has not always remained so still, nestling among dun-coloured rocks and sprays of violet heather. Lifted by the wind. I carefully unwind the strip of tartan wound about its quill and steam the ragged barb. Silken yet tensile, it responds to the hot mist, swiftly re-contouring. As if always desiring sleekness, ready for flight. Divorced from the frame of a powerful raptor, the feather now acquires its own presence. A fragile sword of knowledge.