A Feather in My Hand

They say it's illegal in this country to collect the feathers of migratory birds from off the ground. While serial killers and warlords execute their agendas with aplomb, I have been chastised for a feather in my hand. (*Please read author footnotes*)
What if it was known that  I had bouquets of feathers lining my own nest? What I once collected freely, now replaced with nervous glances around me as I pocket yet another whisper of hope: a feather found.
I'm welcome to buy exotic feathers of unknown birds that live a world away and will never grace my skyline. Their collectors aren't scolded and penalized, just paid for their efforts. I suppose that under microscope most feathers could make even the seasoned survivalist cringe, with their parasites and microorganisms flourishing.
So what is the allure?
Is it because they enable their wearer to do so effortlessly what I can only dream of? Soaring far above the chaos to dip and dive, float and glide. Is it the beauty of their palette which has no equal? Or is it the genius of the design, nearly weightless, yet strong enough to forge through winds that would knock me over? For me it is all of the above and one more intangible element:
 My Blackfoot Nation heritage.
Despite the contradiction of my "pale eyes", I feel rooted in this earth the way my grandmother must have, and I feel it in my blood, an invisible element racing through me all the way back to her. It shows through randomly like a silver thread in a tapestry of color. I wish there was more of it. I wonder if that connection is why I feel like such a misfit in this modern word. It’s as if my soul speaks another language and my heart beats to a slower drum.
When I find a feather, it gives flight to my hopes and dreams while grounding my soul. So I collect feathers as if the task were personally assigned to me, as I craft a warrior’s headdress in my mind. I ride across prairie grasses astride my spotted pony ,a true Medicine Hat Paint with pale eyes of his own and I scan the ground, searching. I think back to my heritage and the parts that have trickled down both tangible and unseen.
I think of my Grandmother’s time here and how our paths never crossed, but our feet have stood on the same rug woven by her hands. In my minds eye I imagine meeting her, and the gift I would bring to thank her for what she left behind : A horse to match my own and a feather in my hand. 

*There is a reason for the law regarding feathers, and I respect it, for the goal is to protect migratory birds from plunder. My family worked hard to honor and preserve our heritage through extensive research and documentation. This along with the DNA test allows us to legally preserve feathers we find.*