Poetry

Ron Pretty: Peacocks

Peacocks When the rain came that afternoon, I put on the Emperor. At first I thought it was the peacock strutting on the roof scrabbling around, but no, the downpour was flooding the damp ground. I had seen them earlier, the peacocks, head to head, cock to hen in what appeared to be avian affection. Washed away, I shouldn’t doubt; in the downpour that followed. Lovers caught in the rain often find passion drying with the return of the sun. I doubt I’ll see those birds so affectionate again.   Perhaps it was the rain souring my mood, or perhaps…

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