Most animals tend to fall into one of two categories: Either we’re afraid of them, or they’re afraid of us. The peacock, and some others I can’t think of right now, resist or transcend such enclosures. In the presence of a peacock or even a peahen, I am too awed to be afraid, while the peacock appears oblivious to me, splendidly imperturbable. An uncommon kind of intelligence seems to guide the peacock. It does not know the word imperturbable, but it could be spelling it correctly to itself as it walks blithely through this sonnet, or through the Genius Preserve as they have been doing since the last century.
The Peacock
I don’t know why the peacock
crossed this ordinary
suburban road, but it took
much longer than any sprinting chicken
would have, due to its substantial tail
and royal, processional gait.
Thus, the people in the head cars
were able to follow its every step
until the long concluding plumage,
with no reason to display its iridescent
fan of eyes, was dragged over the far curb,
following, as always, the resolute body of the bird
wherever it happened to be heading—
to India or ancient Java, I figured, before stepping on the gas.
Billy Collins is a former two-term U.S. Poet Laureate (2002–03) and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His most recent book is Musical Tables (Penguin Random House, 2022). The Peacock was written specifically for Winter Park Magazine.