It has been observed that men, in their aging, for the most part have thrown off their feathers; while women, largely, remain in full and absolute plumage for many, many years.
This is an issue, for those women among us who still stand with feathers fluffed and ruffled, those of us still seeking a complement of feathers no matter how dark and muffled. There is the disenchantment of the jowly neck, the rubicose nose, the sprung-steel brows.
A long time ago, in another century, there were peacocks late on a summer's night, with their solitary cries traversing hill and gully. I recall how that piercing tone caught my imagination, a lonesome teen penning poetry by moonlight. I could see in my mind's eye that fan of iridescent plumage, while my own want & adolescent desire threw off sparks that failed to ignite even the most tenuous of tinders.