The Peacock

I lay there in my bed, early morning, the sun still low, a washed-out robin softly chirping on the sill,

when calls from different directions ascended. From old ground and hidden perch they arrived. I had nearly reasoned them

into a unified melody when the great bird crashed in over the   ledge

and strutted across my legs, my chenille spread, and melody of   any kind.

What a relief, I thought, not knowing why. And I regarded the eyes of the peacock’s feathers. Their odd-shaped patches

of olive, brown, and blue, like emblems of earth, flagged his otherworldly body, which shimmered aquamarine

as it jerked across my feet in awkward time. I awoke, then, from any pretense of music not bound to that ocular display,

and I walked out of that room to find an outer door.