CAROL BORZYSKOWSKI
Peacock Screams

Minnesota winters kill those not seasoned.
Myths created in neighborhood versions:
Flashes of blue in a garage
glimpses of gold on a deck.
Spring emerged on my garage roof
with the fabled pair pecking at my window.
He danced for her in my back yard
iridescent swirls of blue against dandelions
the peahen was unfazed.
White cat, silent as smoke,
drifted away, not recognizing exotics
as prey. Her interest captured by a chipmunk
transfixed by the dance.
I track their spoor around the yard
while I hear his triumphant screech.
I try to imagine their sanctuary on the bluff
hidden from coyotes and fox. His tail draping
over an elm branch, his crown thrusting from Sumac.
His screams, raw and fresh, add disturbing notes
to the bluff symphony of native creatures.
It freezes me every time, and I wonder about
chicks and gently ask white cat to continue
to ignore the strange, to remain indifferent
to the shift of balance on the back bluff.