The Peacock
What a tail of white feathers
the cock shakes out!
Look!
He bristles with the shimmer of it.
There,
Left of the tree,
All scallop-shell shaped,
borne forward and forward and forward,
Articulated in air.
No,
In wet green leaves.
Hazed.
Drizzle misting the white wheeled spread
Strut and lift, hooking down morning light
And breaking in exquisite claws.
Then a red screech
And it's all up with the peacock. He rouses
To a low bough and broods over the showy fall of his tail feathers
Who made us risk losing the whole day.*
Snowy moonfall on cane,
The sugar field under clean stars,
It is soundless night now-
Still, but for a stir near the irrigation ditch.
Raw shrieks in the cane!
The peacock!
Soft necks, nails raking them.
We flinch apart.
Rich peacock screams!
The apocalyptic bristle of white feathers!