A little brown chicken picks up some feathers
in her beak, left behind by peacock grand
and arranges them, so carefully, among her own
So now may she glisten with the greens,
and blues, and violets
of the bird known for his beauty and regality and ambition
She struts and totes her new coat a-round
Have you walked the imprints of a peacock? For there is
something about the height of your beak, and the
volume of your song, and the pace of your steps--
and she does know the footsteps.
Yet when alone, in dark and unseen, she undoes her -do
and is still a chicken.