PEACOCK

I stood there, in the treehouse, watching the setting sun’s violent red glow. A flash of colour, a harsh call, a shadow cast by the strange figure on the ground. I wondered. What was it? I leant over the edge of the treehouse, the coarse wood of the colossal willow under my hands. A short, sharp, raucous call startled me, and I struggled to regain my balance. And then I saw it, its enchanting feathers illuminated in the setting sun. The peacock croaked, and fanned its tail yet wider. The feathers shone, bathing the treehouse in light. Then the sun disappeared, and the feather’s shine ceased. The darting shadow of the bird fled into the trees. The full moon glowed on, and I sighed. The treehouse again. Full moon once more. Would the enchanting bird, the mythical peacock, would it return, reappear to show its divine glory? There was a chance. That was why I waited in the treehouse. A dark red form flashed across the clearing. Fox. And I heard the sharp call of a terrified peacock. On the impulse of a moment, I grabbed a rock lying sharpened in the treehouse. The sharp stone glided through the air into the bush where the peacock and the fox fought viciously. A trickle of blood ran out from under the bush, and one solitary figure walked slowly out of the bush. One solitary figure cast a grey silhouette as it cautiously crept towards the treehouse. The lone animal abruptly stretched the muscles near its tail. The cascade of glowing feathers reflected the moonlight into the treehouse. Peacock.

by: Fergus