Chance Encounter

The Sunday Scribblings prompt is "chance encounter". This is not a new poem. It was absolutely true to the facts when I wrote it. I could also add that, in a chance encounter with "our" peacock, a raccoon almost lost his tail and slunk fearfully out of the back yard. The neighbors objected to the "raucous cries" so, reluctantly, we called the pound. The man from the pound came to our home with a large wire trapping cage which he baited. We were to call him when the trap was sprung.

Instead of being tempted by the allure of carefully chosen peacock goodies, the peacock took up residence on top of the cage. He slept there for the rest of what must have been the mating season, then left as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving only a yard full of tail feathers. We have never seen him again.

THE FERAL PEACOCK

Regally he paces into view --
step, then pose, then step --outside our room,
small imperious head with swept-back plume
balanced on its column of shocking blue.

He wears his wedding raiment, trailing train
or iridescent satin, feathered sheen
of circlets -- emerald, sapphire, turquoise green
on shifting bronze and gold. We tap the pane.

His strident outcry penetrates out walls,
pierces our minds, awakens memory
of gothic tales, estates that used to be.
What is it he demands with raucous calls?

His hens? He was alone when he appeared
and claimed our unkempt yard, small urban stage.
Wide lawns of empire lost, another age
when he could strut and preen and never feared

the thorny vines that strip each nether quill?
Shrill, he summons his retinue. Who comes?
We lean past garbage pails and toss him crumbs,
sole loyal subjects who obey him still.

Wildlife in our backyard

Deer are frequent visitors to our yard, especially when there are young shoots on which to nibble. They leap a fence to enter, but we think they feel safe behind our fences. The two below are beneath our blossoming plum tree. They will be back later to eat plums, either from low-hanging branches or from the ground. They seem to prefer the ones on the ground which are often fermented. Alcoholic deer?

Our most notable backyard visitor was a peacock, a solitary bird from parts unknown, who took up residence and began to advertise loudly for a mate. The neighbors complained so bitterly that we called the pound. The animal control officer brought a wire cage large enough to hold a peacock or even a small mountain lion, and baited it with choice seeds. The peacock never was tempted inside but slept on top of it. At the end of the summer, having attracted no similarly displaced peahens,
he shed his feathers and disappeared.

He did, however, inspire me to write this poem:

THE FERAL PEACOCK
Regally he paces into view --
step, then pose, then step --outside our room,
small imperious head with swept-back plume
balanced on its column of shocking blue.

He wears his wedding raiment, trailing train
or iridescent satin, feathered sheen
of circlets -- emerald, sapphire, turquoise green
on shifting bronze and gold. We tap the pane.

His strident outcry penetrates out walls,
pierces our minds, awakens memory
of gothic tales, estates that used to be.
What is it he demands with raucous calls?

His hens? He was alone when he appeared
and claimed our unkempt yard, small urban stage.
Wide lawns of empire lost, another age
when he could strut and preen and never feared
the thorny vines that strip each nether quill?
Shrill, he summons his retinue. Who comes?
We lean past garbage pails and toss him crumbs,
sole loyal subjects who obey him still.