If I were a fashion designer, I’d model my creation on the Blue Jay.
I’d design a gown made entirely of silk. The front would be palest grey, with a snow-white collar set off by an obsidian necklace. The cowl and short cape would be of periwinkle blue.
The glory of the gown is its sleeves, with many blue panels bordered black like the panes of a stained-glass window.
From the back, a long train of blue is trimmed with narrow black bands. When it moves, it reveals glimpses of a white lining.
My dress is self repairing, like a Blue Jay’s plumage. When a jay’s feathers become worn, they drop off, by ones or twos. New, fresh ones grow in to take their places. It happens so gradually that the bird always has enough feathers.
If a Blue Jay were to perch on your hand, you would be surprised how light it is. The feathers next to the body are fluffy, and the stiff flight feathers are hollow. All its feathers together weigh perhaps a quarter of an ounce, but they keep the Blue Jay warm in winter.
I hope my mythical gown will be equally light, warm, and efficient. And of course washable.
A Blue Jay flies to the edge of my birdbath and lands. The bird pauses above the trembling mirror before taking a drink.
Is she admiring her dress?
Imaginative at your very best!
Wow, what a dress!
Thanks for the increased appreciation of the bluejay. Are they still in trouble in this county?