Different types of feathers layer around them.
All different colors,
blue, green, yellow and red.
Every season it’s a different thing.
It was blue, green yellow and red.
Now it’s teal, orange, purple, and pink.

No brains,
no brawn,
only how colorful you are.

How many feathers,
that’s all that matters.
Hundreds and hundreds,
but it will ever be enough.

For mating,
for playing,
for feeling good.
It is a need,
a passion,
an obsession.

Every year they get older.
Their fields of color begin to deplete,
and each day more and more fall at their feet.
You can see their demise,
but it cannot be helped.
For the peacock,
this need for beauty,
just cannot be helped.